Between the Fire and the Sky
by SwiftSnowmane
Summary: After getting drunk on moonshine and burning down the shack, Beth and Daryl run together into the night.
1. Prologue - Carry On

Between 'Still' and 'Alone', Beth and Daryl travel through the countryside and deep into the wilderness. As their journey brings them further into each other's worlds, Beth begins to wonder if there is any safe place left on earth.

Perhaps all that remains is the fire that burns between them out there beneath the dark night sky.

* * *

"You're not a happy drunk, at all."  
"Yeah, I'm happy, I'm just not blind."  
-'Still'

…

They didn't look back.

Flames towered behind them. Beth could still hear their roaring, could still smell the smoke rising as she and Daryl ran side by side into the woods, away from the burning cabin and the stumbling walkers.

Another wall of fire, another inferno left behind. The heat of destruction at their backs. It was becoming a familiar sensation, here at end of the world.

But this one was different.

This one, they'd started themselves.

As twigs and fallen branches snapped loudly under her boots, Beth felt light, almost giddy, as though they were naughty college kids who'd just pulled a prank. She had never been to college—the world had ended long before she'd had the chance—but that's how she imagined it anyway. Tonight, she and Daryl had broken almost every rule of this new, dark world that they lived in, and done so gladly.

They'd have no shelter this night, but no matter. It was worth it, it had to be. Just like finding her drink, earlier. Beth could hardly believe that burning that old, abandoned shack had been _her_ idea, and that Daryl—ever practical in all things relating to survival —had agreed to it. She would've laughed or even shouted with exhilaration, but she was already a bit short of breath. Despite being on the run together for a while now—had it really been weeks since their prison home had fallen, their friends and family lost?—keeping up with that seemingly tireless man was not easy.

She kept pace with him now though, pushing through the burning in her lungs, the queasiness in her tummy, and the cramp in her side, and dared a quick glance at him. They had drawn farther and farther from the still-roaring fire, the darkness of the woods deepening, blocking the faint moonlight, until she could barely make him out. Until she could see only the glint of his eye, the silhouette of that crossbow that was almost an extension of his arm, and the pale outline of the wings on the back of his vest beneath the pack he carried. _Angel wings,_ she thought dizzily.

Without warning, Daryl stopped and turned towards her. Too quick; she stumbled into him. Just as fast, his free hand caught her arm, held her up, kept her on her feet.

As she wondered what had made him cease mid-stride, a familiar fear coursed through her and her fingers moved instinctively to the little knife at her belt. She looked wildly around them, expecting a walker or an entire herd to burst through the trees at any moment.

"Easy, girl," Daryl mumbled, steadying her.

Absurdly, Beth was reminded of the tone her father had used on spooked horses back at the farm and she suppressed a sudden giggle.

"Why're we stoppin'?" she managed. Breathless and shaky, her voice wavered in dark space between them.

"Look at you, swayin' on your feet," he replied, still holding onto her. Unlike earlier, his grip on her arm was firm but gentle. "Sure ya ain't sick?"

"Oh." She was not entirely certain how to answer. Earlier she'd boldly boasted to him that she was feeling fine, and she had been—buzzed, she remembered her friends calling it—but she wasn't so sure now.

After a moment, she realized her other hand was still on his chest, where she'd placed it to prevent herself from completely bowling into him. Underneath the cool leather of his vest, she could feel his heart thumping. Fast, like a rabbit, the way it had when she'd hugged him close back in her cell that night he'd come to tell her about Zach. It could only have been weeks ago , but it seemed like years. Another lifetime, now.

Looking up into his face, Beth could still behold that rare curve of his mouth and strange brightness in his eyes. _He must feel it, too,_ she thought. A release. A letting-go. Grief, for her father, for Maggie and Glenn, for Rick and Carl, for lil Judy—Oh, God, Judy—for everyone, still lingered within her, hot and searing, but she put it away. _"You've got to put it away",_ she'd insisted to him back there in the run-down shack. _Maybe it was just the moonshine talkin',_ she thought, _but at least it's got us movin' again._

"Gotta keep movin'," Daryl muttered, as if he'd heard her thoughts. Yet still he held her by the arm, his callused grip strong and warm upon her bare flesh. He was close, close enough she could feel the burn of the moonshine on his breath.

Beth just nodded up at him, her own breath coming in little gasps. Even Daryl seemed to need a moment before pressing on again. He'd had quite a bit of the drink himself, in the end. As she was all-too aware. _"I'm a dick when I'm drunk,"_ he'd said back there on that moonlit porch, a sheepish smile creeping over his features.

The near-hilarity of their situation was fading as the reality set in—they'd burned their only shelter for the night, and walkers could still overrun these woods any moment. After a lifetime without, all that alcohol was making Beth's head swim. She'd felt amazing back there on the enclosed porch, but after running like hell she thought she might be sick. She never thought she'd admit it, but maybe her daddy had been right to forbid it, before. Maybe she would've even told him so if she could only have…

Sudden tears welled, threatened to spill, but she shook them away.

"Sure you're alright?" Daryl inclined his head, looking her up and down, that small smile that had been playing on his lips since they had sat on the porch together replaced with something else. Something new.

Beth shivered, suddenly feeling the night air. "Yeah, just my first drink an' all that," she shrugged.

"You mean _drinks_." There was amusement in his tone. "You downed a helluva lot. Seein' it was your first time 'n all. Never took you for a moonshine girl, Greene. Be feelin' it come mornin'. If you ain't already."

 _He's teasin' me._ She grinned up at him. "So much for bein' my chaperone. You had quite a few yourself, _Mr. Dixon._ " Her breath was coming back to her now, but her head was still a bit fuzzy. She lowered her hand from his chest, letting the cool leather of his vest slide under her fingers.

Gradually, Daryl released her from both his gaze and his grip. She began to move away when she felt his hand come back up, to linger for a moment upon the small of her back. His fingers were light but strong as he nudged her forward. "Come on," he mumbled.

As she followed him deeper into the trees, branches scratched at her arms, her face, her hair, as grasping as any walker's nails. Once again, she resisted the urge to glance behind her. If the dead were walking out here, let them come. She pushed a wispy lock of hair that had fallen from her ponytail out of her face and took a deep breath. _What lies ahead. That's all that matters now._ In this world, that meant more walkers—and more death—that much was certain. Beth had made room for loss before, and if she lived long enough she knew she might have to do so again.

These woods might hold her death this very night, but Beth felt like shouting in defiance at the darkness, just as they had flipped off the shack and watched it burn, the flames dancing high into the midnight sky. Before today, it had been a long time since they'd had much reason to keep going. The loss of all whom they had known and loved had seemed too much to bear. _Too much to bear alone,_ she thought, _but not too heavy to carry together._

Before today, she'd feared she might lose him, too. Lose him to the numbness and grief and sheer indifference of it all. But then they'd drank together, and the grief had come pouring out out of him…

In the midst of it, and in the aftermath, Beth had remembered something her father had once told her—how some folk were akin to a glass overflowing. So filled up with whatever ailed them that they'd have to empty themselves before there was room for anything else again. _Guess you were right about that too, Daddy._

As she moved quickly but carefully through the night woods, still shadowing her companion, she caught him glancing her at her often. _Probably just makin' sure I'm not miles behind him, puking my guts out._ And yet, each time she reached his side, his arm would come up to urge her onward. It was only the briefest of movements, a subtle resting of fingers upon her back, shoulder, or elbow. But it was insistent, protective.

In a night already laden with thoughts of their prison family and of those already long-gone, she was hit with yet another memory of her big brother, Shawn. Back there in the shack, she'd told Daryl that she'd found her older brother annoying and even overprotective at times—and it was true. But of course she had never truly minded. If anything, she had to admit she missed it, even—that feeling of just knowing that someone so loyal, so strong always had her back.

An old classic rock song her brother had always blared through the open windows of his pickup truck came to her then, rising like a mist from the floor of memory. And as often happened, before she even realized it she was humming it to herself, the sounds high and pleasing in her throat:

 _Carry on my wayward son_  
 _There'll be peace when you are done._  
 _Lay your weary head to rest,_  
 _Don't you cry no more…_

The song trailed off, her voice fading away into the night as smoke or wisps of cloud disappear before the light of the moon. Feeling strangely shy all of a sudden, she stole another glance at Daryl. If he'd noticed her singing, he'd made no sign. Despite herself, she could not help feel somewhat relieved—if the man still considered such an activity frivolous and annoying, she didn't really want to find out.

As she observed him striding close to her side but just slightly ahead of her, she wondered if she was perhaps imagining it. Imagining the expression on his face. For, despite the perilous nature of their current situation, Daryl appeared oddly calm. Not just unmoved and stoic in the face of their almost unbearable loss as he had been these last weeks, during even in his blackest moods. The air around him felt somehow less charged, and the man himself appeared almost…serene.

Beth considered this shift in the fabric of their strange and precarious existence. This eking out of a survival of sorts out here, deep in the forest. Might it be that the surreal events of today had set a new path unfolding ahead of them? A path of living, not just breathing. A path upon which, perhaps, they might just find something…more.

Some might say there was neither peace nor rest left in this world, but that didn't mean she would stop looking. Not for as long as she lasted, anyway. And she intended to last, for a while longer at least.

Daryl would keep going too, she had admonished him that he must. Somehow, she felt that he would adhere to that, even after she was long gone. _"Stop,"_ he'd pleaded, when she'd started down that dark thought-trail back at the cabin. When she'd told him she'd be gone someday. And oh, that look he'd given her, almost as if she were twisting that big knife of his into his side. Almost as if he…

She shook her head again, trying to rattle away the memory of it. That hard, narrowed gaze, gone soft and vulnerable. Those once-guarded eyes, shining with some unearthly light. Or perhaps it had just been the halo moonshine that surrounded them both.

No, something sure had changed tonight. Shifted, like the earth was shifting under her boots. _We burned it down._

Fire. She knew she ought to fear it, as a horse fears it, with the whites of its eyes gleaming in the dark, with nostrils flaring from the acrid smoke. For she was well-acquainted with its destructive power. Her childhood home, all she'd ever known, had gone up in flames on that long-ago, fateful night. And later, the prison towers had smoked and burned as Daryl had come for her, as they'd turned and fled together at the last moment.

And yet, in lighting up that shack with her own hand—her own hand and his, she reminded herself—Beth felt less and less as though she'd just finished something and more and more as though something had just begun. Something she might not be able to stop, even if she'd wanted to, something as wild and unpredictable as the element itself. She felt spurred ever onward by some inward force, as though she had always been a creature of flight. As though something of the fire yet burned within her, as though the very soles of her feet might set the night-forest alight.

The weight of all they'd left burning back there began to lift, for all was transmuted, wood and glass even now floating skyward as smoke and ash. There could be no turning back. She'd made her choice, she'd had her damn drink. She'd poured that booze, she'd smashed those glasses. Hell, she'd just set something on fire. With _him_.

Beth suspected that, moonshine or no, this wasn't the sort of _somethin'_ she'd forget come morning.

Maybe she was doing too much thinking for someone who'd been drinking, for as she looked ahead she saw that she'd once again fallen behind Daryl. He was now a few paces ahead of her, the wings on his vest a faint glow in the shadows. Lest they fade entirely, she quickened her steps, the undergrowth crunching beneath her boots, and soon she was at his side once more. _And I'm gonna stay here,_ she thought, _as long as I can. As long as I live…_

They picked up the pace, and with each step they breathed the same breaths, shared the same night air.

As they emerged from the trees to dart cross an abandoned country road, the thin clouds above parted to reveal the silvery moon. Beneath its pale light, their shadows shifted and merged, and as they ran once more into the shelter of the forest, Beth felt a strange sense of certainty.

Together, they would live to see another dawn.

…

* * *

 **A/N:** First published on Ao3 last year, by special request I am now re-posting this fic here as well. Originally intended to be canon-compliant, this story now forms the main part of the **Fire & Sky-verse**.

* * *

 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	2. The Old Days Again

"I'm not stayin' in this suck-ass camp!"  
\- Beth Greene, 'Still'

"It's like a damn romance novel."  
\- Daryl Dixon, '30 Days Without an Accident'

…

There'd been a saying, before the turn: if you ask a Georgian for water, they'll give you wine.

 _Or moonshine_ , Beth thought from where she lay upon the damp earth, trying not to open her eyes. _Why the hell did I ever tell him I wanted a damn drink?_

Light streamed through the trees overhead and she squinted through her fingers. There it was, a right devil of a headache. Quicker than a rattler it had creeped up on her in the night. Settled in, coiled inside, made itself at home. Now it was hissing in her head, bearing down on her insides, and her stomach lurched precariously.

Still squinting bleary-eyed into the too-bright canopy, all she could remember was the obvious: they'd been lit last night. Oh, and there'd been a fire. A big one. _I think we might've started it…_

For a delirious, terrifying moment, she wondered if, sometime in the night, she had indeed been bitten. Some serpent or undead thing, teeth and fangs sinking into her skin in the dark. _Maybe this is it,_ she thought for a heart-stopping second. _Maybe the fever's finally takin' hold._

And then, just as the daylight had made its garish self known to her blinking eyes, memory flooded through her and she sat up, gasping in relief.

For she recalled it now: they'd burned it down. That old, run-down shack, and all that went with it. All gone. Up in smoke. Floating its way up into the moonlit sky.

And then, boldly—or perhaps foolishly, she could not yet decide—they'd run through the night.

Exhausted and weary, she and Daryl had halted by a little stream at first light. After stringing the few cans and scrap metal they had between the trees surrounding a small clearing, her companion had insisted, gruffly, that she needed something to drink. Something other than moonshine. Carefully—gently almost, even—he'd handed her his water bottle. Not tossed it, this time. And then with a grunt and a wave of his arm, he'd gestured to her to lay down and get herself some rest.

And rest she had. Somehow, she'd slept until the sun was high, the day already grown oppressively hot and humid as usual.

Dragging herself up off the forest floor—by now she was used to snatching what sleep she could on beds of dewy grass, pine needles, leaves, and a tarp, if she was lucky—she stumbled to the edge of their camp to heed the call of nature. Afterward, she tried to make her way back to lie down again, but she'd only taken a few steps before her stomach heaved violently.

Daryl, who'd been standing against a big oak keeping watch, with what looked like an unlit cigarette in his mouth, was at her side in two long strides. She sensed rather than saw him: his hand upon her back, the other on her arm, holding her up.

Belatedly, Beth realized she hadn't eaten much of anything yesterday; all that had come up was watery bile.

"Thought you might be feelin' it," he muttered.

"Sorry," she mumbled after the heaving had subsided. Every item of her clothing was as filthy as the next, so she just wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and hoped for the best.

"Ain't nothin'," Daryl said softly. Beth thought he was trying to sound reassuring. Crouched there beside him, she could feel his gaze upon her, heavy as the humidity even now bearing down on her. "This one time," he continued, "I was dead drunk, passed-out on the sofa. Merle brought this lady-friend 'round in the middle of the night—"

That had her attention. "Merle had a _girlfriend_?"

"Yeah, some, I guess, over the years. Never lasted too long. Anyway, she left her bag or whatever on the couch. This real fancy, expensive thing. I didn't know it, but at some point I must'a got up and puked in it. Later, she went to get her lipstick or a condom or somethin'. Screamed fit to wake the dead. Last thing I saw was the door slammin' behind her."

"What did Merle do?" she asked, expecting another story of a gun being pulled, or something similarly violent.

Something akin to a smirk appeared in the corner of Daryl's mouth. "Nothin.' Next day he acted like he'd just had the best night of his life. He'd been drunk off his ass. High too, most like. Didn't remember a thing. Never did see that lady-friend again though."

Beth couldn't help but laugh, then. But she had stop immediately as her stomach hurt too much and her head was still throbbing something fierce. She wondered just how many such tales Daryl had. _"I done a lot of things,"_ he'd said, back at the shack.

Without another word, Daryl led her over to the big oak tree. Carefully, he helped her sit down against it. Beth watched him as he rummaged through their pack, looking for something, and pulled out a piece of coiled wire they'd scavenged from the car the other day. Handing her his water bottle, he instructed her to drink it all by the time he came back.

"Where're you goin'?" Beth nearly choked on her sip of water. _He can't mean to go off huntin' now…_

"Stayin' hydrated ain't enough. You need to eat somethin'. Protein. It'll take the edge off. I'll be right over there, settin' up a snare. Behind that grove of river birch," he added, when he saw the look on her face. "I'll stay in hollerin' distance. Best keep that knife ready all the same."

Beth managed a weak nod, but Daryl seemed satisfied, and he turned from her and strode across the clearing and into the trees, crossbow in hand. She watched him go, and with a sigh leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Carefully, she took several small sips from the water bottle, thinking that perhaps while she waited she could indeed drink her headache away.

As the afternoon progressed, the air only seemed to grow hotter and more humid. Cicadas hummed in the trees overhead. For Beth, the period of their buzzing had always signified late summer, the feeling of going back to school. High school. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The end of the world might've robbed her of her full education, but she still remembered things. There'd been this biology lesson in her sophomore year in which they'd studied the life cycles of insects. Cicadas, she remembered, could remain hidden under the ground for years, and only lived above the surface for a short time. In the world above, they sang, mated, and died. Beth thought about how the world used to be, years and years ago. Native peoples had lived off this land for millennia. And later, settlers had carved lives out of the harsh wilderness. Women perished in childbirth. Children rarely reached adulthood. _Maybe things have just gone back to the way they were before,_ she thought. _Short lives, full of song._

Thoughts of high school brought on other memories, ones she had worked hard to put away. Memories of the girl who'd had butterflies in her stomach the first day she'd started seeing Jimmy; the girl who'd sung in church to please her daddy; the girl who'd crooned old folk tunes and rock songs to please herself. In the years since the outbreak, Beth had sung for all manner of reasons, but whenever she had the chance she tried to sing what she liked. A Tom Waits song, one of the many she'd sung to Judith, came to her then:

 _Pretend that you owe me nothing_  
 _And all the world is green_  
 _We can bring back the old days again_  
 _When all the world is green_

As the words to the slow tune danced on her lips, she recalled with sudden force the last time she'd sung it aloud: the day her father died. As she'd heard the commotion out in the prison yard, she had crooned a verse to soothe Judith before strapping the whimpering baby into her carrier and leaving her in the cellblock with Lizzie, Mika, Luke, and Molly. On sheer instinct, Beth had run to help the others outside. Her father still hadn't returned, and somehow in her heart she'd known he was out there, in mortal danger.

 _Oh, Daddy._ Beth swallowed back the lump in her throat. _You'd be glad to know that even after everything, I can still sing._

A twig snapped behind her and she inhaled sharply, startled out of her painful reverie. Within seconds, the knife was in her hand. But when she looked across the clearing it was just Daryl, standing quietly at the other side, his eyes fixed upon her. _How long has he been standin' there?_

"Hey," he said, lowering his gaze. He seemed to be staring at something in his hand.

"Hey," she replied, as brightly as she could. "Catch anythin'?"

"Just waitin' on the snares," he motioned in the direction of the grove. "Found these."

Slowly, he approached her where she was still sitting down against the oak tree. Standing now above her, he bent to hand her one of his rags, wrapped into a bundle, and pressed it gently into her hand. Curious, Beth opened the little package and was greeted by the sight of a handful of carefully-picked, brilliantly red raspberries.

 _Of all the things…_ He couldn't have known. He couldn't have known they were her momma's favorite. Their delicate scent immediately brought back summers long gone, picking the wild berries with her mother, Patricia, and Maggie, and eating them with fresh cream from their farm. Making fruit pies; Shawn eating three slices before being scolded; her daddy saying they were the best in the world. She fought back the sudden tears. Beth Greene wasn't supposed to cry anymore. _Then why does the simplest thing make me want to weep?_

Daryl was still standing there above her, as if waiting for a reply. He must have seen the stricken look on her face. "You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, hastily scrubbing her face. _He's seen me cry enough for a hundred lifetimes._ "I—I love these. Thank you," she added, looking up at him.

Daryl nodded, and before she could say anything else, he had walked back across the clearing and into the trees—to check on the snares, she presumed. An odd tightness filled her chest as she watched him disappear into the birch grove once more.

And then she realized: _I've seen him cry now, too._

…

Beth ate the berries slowly, one by one, savoring each bite. The sweet tartness, the crunch of each little seed. It had been so long.

As she ate, the realization, the understanding of the true value of this unexpected gift washed over her. How could she ever forget her father's admonitions? After the farm, on that the winter on the run—and later, at the prison—he'd always insisted they needed to find and collect as much fruit as possible. To prevent scurvy, she knew. Before all this, she'd thought that was an ailment that only affected settlers and sailors of yesteryear. But then she had seen it take hold of a few folk who'd been on the road too long, the older, frailer ones especially. Beth shuddered now to recall what it had done to their teeth, their hair…their bones. Ever after, she had done her utmost to prevent in it the children under her care.

No, fruit was not just some luxury from before the turn to be missed and sighed for longingly. Out in the wilds, it was life…or death.

When she reached the last small berry, she let it melt over her tastebuds, let it linger upon her tongue, and finally, with regret, let it slide down her throat. If she hadn't already decided not to cry today, she would have done so then.

Once she had finished, she began to grow restless. The air sweltered; the oak's thick, protruding bark dug uncomfortably into her back. Gnats flew around her face and eyes, some making a daring attempt to crawl up her nose. She batted at them mildly; she scarcely noticed them, anymore. Fidgeting, she played with the charms on the bracelets on her wrist for a while before shifting once more, trying to find an angle that wasn't agony on her spine.

In that moment, she would have given much for a shower and a bed, but unless they could find safe shelter such luxuries would remain a distant memory. Still, Beth felt she had to do something, and decided she would settle for a dash of water on her face.

She stood up then, still a bit shaky, but when she felt sure that she wouldn't pass out she hobbled over to the stream. She knelt down on its bank, the cool mud seeping soothingly through the torn knees of her jeans. As she leaned over, a lock of hair fell into her face, and she realized it was crusty with…something.

"Ugh, seriously?" she groaned aloud.

Beth was no stranger to messes; while caring for Judith she'd experienced her fair share of baby spit-up. Nowadays, it seemed she was more familiar with walker-guts than anything else, and it had been far too long since she'd properly cleaned herself up. _Screw this,_ she thought. Splashing another handful of water over her face and hair, she was determined now. She hoped she wouldn't be sick again. _What a waste of perfectly ripe raspberries that would be…_

Her head still throbbed something fierce, so much so that she decided to undo her ponytail for the first time in…well, she wasn't sure how long. Ever since she'd stopped writing in her diary, ever since that night she'd torn out its delicate pages and burned her own, hopeful words, she'd lost track of the days.

Shaking herself back into the present, she now wriggled out of the blood-stained yellow shirt and, pulling it quickly up and over her head, set to washing it as best as she could in the swift-flowing waters of the creek. She had no soap, not even a washboard like in the olden days, but she squeezed and sluiced and rinsed and hoped for the best. As she wrung it out a final time, she watched as thin, red rivulets slid over her hands, into the water, to be carried away downstream. _That's right,_ she thought, _wash it all away…_

After cleaning herself up the best she could, she returned to the inviting shade of the oak tree. She laid the shirt, which was at least no longer stiff and reeking with blood, sweat, and grime, out to dry in the afternoon sun beside her, and moved to sit back down. But as she knelt down once more, out of the corner of her eye there was a sudden dart of movement: the whip of a thin tail, a flash of electric green.

Once, long ago, she would have screeched in fright, or shoo'd it off the farmhouse porch lest it slink inside. But no longer did she fear those that crept or slithered or crawled in these woods. It was only a little lizard, claiming her spot in her absence. Or, perhaps, she considered, it was she who had stolen _its_ spot.

Now, as she watched it scurry away, she felt almost sorry for the loss of its colorful presence. It was rare thing, to encounter something so small and harmless. Something that only wanted to share her space. Something that did not want to eat her, or tear her flesh from her bones. Something that would not even sting, poison, or bite.

As the creature disappeared behind a mossy log, she sighed after it. "Careful, now," she called. "Don't let anything eat you today, okay?"

Alone once more in the sweltering heat, she resumed humming to herself. As she shook her wet hair, droplets of the fresh water trickled down her face and neck and down her chest, sliding down along the raggedy necklace that held the little pendant close to her heart. She shivered at the sudden, small pleasure.

Working her fingers through her damp, tangled tresses, she found herself wondering how much longer Daryl would be with that snare and began to worry, just a little. _He said he'd stay close._

It occurred to her that she was still shirtless. As she bent to look through their pack, searching for something dry to wear, she swatted away a couple mosquitoes, drawn to her expanse of bare skin. It could only have been mid-afternoon at the latest, but they were out in full force. Beth often thought that if walkers didn't eat her alive, the mosquitoes certainly would.

Her quick search through the pack revealed nothing but the remaining stacks of cash, candy bars, matches, and the souvenir spoon she'd picked up on a whim—belatedly, she remembered that she'd left her old tank tops in the changing room back at the golf club. With a sigh, she moved to put the still-wet shirt back on again before the mosquitoes really did finish her off.

It was then that the cans rattled loudly on their string at the edge of the camp. Beth didn't waste a moment; she stood up quickly, pulling the bone-handled knife from her belt in one swift movement. Standing up so suddenly made her head throb and her vision blur, but she forced herself to remain on her feet. It was a walker—of course it was—and it had entangled itself on the alarm. Its guttural snarls and clumsy, flailing movement made a huge racket.

Beth didn't have time to ponder where it had come from, whether it was a lone straggler from the shack that had somehow stumbled after them all night, or if these wandering, mortal remains had once been some poor soul, lost in the woods, who simply hadn't made it. She had only time to decide, in an instant, that she had to _do something_ about it. _If I don't finish it quick, all this noise will attract others._ Fear gripped her, as it always did when facing a walker alone, but she pushed it aside. _I won't be gutted,_ she thought, resolute. It had become a mantra, of sorts, these last few years, ever since the day she'd decided to live.

She approached the thing slowly, cautiously. As she did, she caught a whiff of the familiar stench of rotting flesh. Peering at it carefully, she saw that half its face seemed to have fallen away, revealing horrible, deadly teeth on one side of what used to be its cheek. It wasn't a fresh one, that much was clear. That was a small comfort, sometimes.

The walker hissed and growled and flailed. In vain, for it was stuck fast. For now. Beth almost felt sorry for it. Almost. For, sooner or later it could easily rip its own arm off in its attempt to reach out and free itself, and then she'd really be screwed. Somehow, she'd have to get close enough to finish it whilst avoiding its grasping, clawing nails.

She was still working out how best to reach its head, thinking maybe she'd need to find a long stick, when she heard a rustle in the leaves behind her. She spun around, fully expecting to find herself surrounded, when something flew past her and emerged with a squelching thud from the other side of the walker's head. The now-dead walker slumped to the ground.

Daryl stood at the other side of the clearing, his crossbow still raised. A brace of rabbits hung limply at his side. "Heard the cans," he said, lowering his weapon.

Still gripping the knife fiercely, she looked down at the walker at her feet and then turned her gaze to the man before her. "I had it."

The look Daryl gave her suggested he thought otherwise, this time. Beth saw herself in his eyes at that moment and knew she must appear quite a sight. Some half-crazed, wild thing with her knife raised, her damp hair loose and frizzy in the heat, and her shirt… _Oh lord, my shirt._ Even though she was clad only in her bra and in a decidedly disheveled state, she stood up straight, held her head high, daring him to say something.

When he didn't speak a word, she made to move past the place he stood to fetch her shirt, but before she could take two steps, her vision swam and she crumpled to the forest floor beside the dead walker. She managed to break her fall with her free hand; nonetheless, an instant later Daryl was at her side, the brace of rabbits dumped, unceremoniously onto the ground.

"You hurt?" His voice was thick with concern.

She shook her head. "Just this stupid headache. Stood up too quick, I guess."

For the second (or was it third?) time already that day, the man helped her to her feet. But as she stood facing him, it seemed finally to dawn on him that she was in a state of undress. He quickly withdrew his hand from her bare shoulder, stepping backward away from her as if he'd been burned. Turning slightly, his eyes averted, Daryl picked the brace of rabbits off the ground, and moved to the edge of the clearing. There, he knelt upon the ground, unsheathed his hunting knife, he laid out the limp forms of the small, furred creatures and began to slicing through their pelts.

Beth just stood there for a moment, arms at her sides, watching him work. She wasn't sure what exactly had just occurred. Living rough together like this, well… awkward moments had happened before and were bound to again. _At least we're both still alive._

Her top was still there, laid out to dry on the mossy roots of the big tree, waiting for her. To get to it, she'd have to pass close to where Daryl knelt, skinning the rabbits. _It's just my dirty old bra,_ she smiled to herself. _Not like there's much to see here, anyway._

As she stepped slowly past his crouched form, her boots crunching against the leaves, Daryl didn't look up, but she could sense him pause, only for a moment, before resuming his work.

When she reached the base of the tree, she found that in the humidity of the day, the garment was still not quite dry. She could see that the spatters of blood on the once-yellow fabric had not quite disappeared—they were just no longer as defined. It was almost as though they had blended into one giant splotch. She supposed it had been a futile task from the start: some stains might never fade completely, no matter how hard you tried to scrub them out.

Pulling the damp shirt over her head, she searched through the open backpack and found some of the matches they'd taken from the country club. Now fully clothed, she squeezed past Daryl once more and knelt down in the center of the clearing. She didn't require instruction; she just set to work.

As always, she used her bare hands to dig a small hole, wherein she placed twigs and leaves for kindling. She struck the match, dropped it into her carefully constructed pile, and blew on it gently.

She smiled to herself, pleased. It was one of the few, small pleasures left to her, out here. To witness her handiwork, the tiny tendrils of smoke, followed by beautiful, crackling flames. To watch it grow, and wake to swift and roaring life, there in the middle of the grove.

…

They ate in silence. Once she had consumed her fill of the seared meat, the light-headed, woozy feeling faded, and she began to feel less like hell warmed over and more like Beth again. Daryl was right—she _had_ needed that protein. She even felt ready to run again now if it came to it, though she had to admit that, for tonight at least, she hoped it wouldn't.

The afternoon stretched on into evening, and as the thick, oppressive heat of the day dissipated into the cooler night air, Beth remained seated by the fire. Silently, Daryl took care of removing the dead walker from their camp and repairing their makeshift alarm. For her companion to go long periods without speaking was hardly unusual, but for a time she began to wonder if he'd clam up again, like he had during these last long, numb weeks on the run.

But no, that was _before_. Before he'd helped her find the moonshine. Before she'd accidentally said the wrong thing at the cabin. _"I've never been in jail,"_ she'd blurted. _"Is that what you think of me?"_ he'd replied coldly, before unzipping his fly and taking a piss right in front of her, as if to show what he'd thought of _that_. She'd been so mortified by the thoughtless words that had flown out of her mouth before she could stop them that she'd not even had a chance to consider whether she should be embarrassed by _that_.

Afterward, Daryl had dragged her outside in some kind of strange fury. She could still feel it, the way he'd held the crossbow under her chin, pressing her against him, his arm tight across her chest. _He was just bein' a jerk,_ she told herself. And yet, she realized she was not annoyed by it now, nor had she been then. Just...surprised. For she could never have imagined Jimmy or Zach holding her like that, hard and fast and rough. Absurdly, she now flushed at the memory of it.

Beth wasn't stupid. Some part of her was, of course, _aware_ of her companion. Such thoughts had never really bothered her, never concerned her before, and they didn't now. She wasn't afraid of him. Not like that. The thought was laughable. As if she could fear the man who had undertaken to risk his life each day for the last two years in order to protect her and her family, not to mention countless others. No, it was men like the Governor—Beth shuddered with remembered anger at what he'd done to her big sister—they were the ones to fear.

As tightly as she clung to the hope of finding the others someday, she knew that she had to consider the possibility that Daryl might be the only living person she had left in this all-too frightening world. And after what had passed between them, after the moonshine, after burning down that place—so full of painful reminders for him—she didn't truly believe that he would withdraw from her like that again. They had been living in each other's pockets, in each other's sweat and blood, for weeks. What did a little glimpse of skin here and there matter, really, after the horrors they had seen?

She chanced a glance at the man then. He had finally settled, seating himself across from her, and was staring into the flames of their small campfire as it burned steadily.

Before, she had been upset—and more than a little frustrated. Not because of Daryl's poorly-timed lesson, or even the things he had said, but because of how he'd been before. How he had given no sign that he still cared. Not just about her father, not just about the ones they'd lost, but also…well, she'd felt so alone all those long weeks, with him all closed-up. As if nothing mattered. As if even _she_ , still living and breathing beside him, hadn't mattered. Beth had been close to despair when she finally decided: to hell with the man, she was going to get herself a damn drink.

It had taken half the day to find one, and they'd passed through forest and country club alike, and had seen the usual strange and troubling sights held within such abandoned places. Daryl had hardly spoken a word, only grunted and grumbled and snarled at her until he'd snapped. And then, just as she'd nearly fallen into the abyss that had been waiting for her all those weeks, he seemed to suddenly want to help her. He'd smashed that bottle onto the floor with such force that she'd nearly jumped out of her skin, and then he'd led her to the moonshiner's shack.

And there, they had found far more than just moonshine.

She knew it now. Knew that Daryl had still cared, had cared perhaps more deeply than ever. She understood now that he had blamed himself for everything that had happened. For failing to track down the Governor. For losing the prison. For her father, even. But Beth also saw clearly that, however skilled a fighter, Daryl Dixon was still only just one man, and there was nothing more he or any of them could have done against the surprise attack. She had never once had mind to blame him. But Daryl, who had protected them all for so long, had shouldered that load onto himself all the same. And when the weight of it had finally broken him open before her, she hadn't thought, she'd just acted on instinct, holding him tightly as he wept. She would never forget the feel of him through that beat-up old vest, how he had slumped in her arms as though there was nothing left inside him to hold him up.

Nothing. That's what he'd told her he'd been, before. To hear him say that—him, who'd been pretty much _everything_ to them at the prison—well, it damn-near broke her heart. Even though she knew it couldn't have been true. Nobody was nothing. No, she knew in her heart that a man like Daryl Dixon could never have been nothing.

And Beth, well, she hadn't minded being _something_ for him, then. In fact, she'd found it strangely comforting, to know that he'd needed something that day too, and not just a damn drink.

When she glanced up at Daryl again he was still staring distantly into the fire, playing with his knife, his lank hair shadowing the rough-hewn contours of his face. The set of his jaw was grim, his expression implacable. With his muscled arms resting on his knees and that knife glinting menacingly in his hands, Daryl appeared every inch the hardened warrior. But back at that cabin, as he'd trembled in her arms, he had seemed small and forlorn. Like a child.

Beth had to wonder if anyone had ever let him sob his heart out without calling him a pussy, weak, or…worse. She thought of Judy, of Luke and Molly and the other kids in the prison; even after the world had gone to hell they'd still been allowed to be children as long as they needed to be, to cry if they were hurt, to be comforted if they were sad. She'd seen to it that it was so. She wondered if Daryl had ever been allowed to be a child. With sorrow she recalled what she knew of her own father's harsh upbringing, and thought she could guess the answer.

As night fell upon the grove, the firelight cast flickering shadows on the trees around them. In the mossy branches above, the cicadas buzzed away relentlessly, their humming melding with the sounds of nocturnal creatures stirring.

Beth remained close to the fire—the smoke kept the majority of the mosquitoes at bay. With her belly full of the sweet berries and lean game meat, she felt relaxed, warm, and almost…content. She had expected the usual pang of dread at the prospect of moving on, of another day and perhaps another full night of running. But even the unending darkness of the forest seemed less threatening tonight. As if, for just one night, they could pretend this was just some camping trip, and that they weren't just a string of cans away from death.

While smacking a stray mosquito from her neck, she realized her hair was still down—it had almost dried completely by now, a frizzy mess as usual no doubt. She would have to put it back in its ponytail and braid as always. Unbound hair and grasping walkers did not mix. As her fingers moved through the pulling and plaiting motions, she resumed the slow tune that she'd sung to Judith the day they'd all had to run for their lives: _"We can bring back the old days again, when all the world is green…"_

She had meant to be quiet, but her clear voice rang like a bell through the trees. The sound seemed to rouse Daryl from whatever spell had fallen over him. He shifted, put his knife down, and prodded the fire with a stick—it cracked and sparked suddenly. His eyes lifted then, reflecting the brightness of the flames. Beth met his gaze, and as she did, her voice caught in her throat. She ceased humming, but she didn't look away.

Finally, Daryl cleared his throat. "You, uh, you feelin' better?"

She smiled, more pleased in that moment that she cared to admit. "Headache's gone, just like you said."

Daryl nodded. "Good."

Beth ventured further. "So, what's the plan? We movin' on tomorrow?"

"Mmm. Thought we could follow the stream, see where it leads."

"Don't you know?" By the ease with which he'd found that cabin yesterday, she thought he knew these woods better than anyone.

He shrugged. "What was there months ago, might not be now. Thought we could see what's left."

She wasn't sure she was hearing him right. "You mean, like supplies? Shelter? People?"

"Beth, don't… I just mean—"

"Daryl, I know you don't—" Beth stopped; they'd spoken at the same time. "Go ahead," she laughed.

"You first," he insisted.

"No, what were you gonna say?" she said.

"Never mind," he shrugged, and poked at the fire again.

When he didn't reply, Beth didn't push the topic further. No matter, she could guess what he'd meant. _"Ain't nothin' worth seein' out there anymore anyway"_ —wasn't that what he'd said back at the cabin?

Her gazed drifted from the man before her to their fire and back again. Her eyes fell upon the form of his crossbow, propped on its side next to him. Something inside her stirred at the sight of it. Some curiosity that, since yesterday, had only deepened. For Daryl had been right; she'd never used such a weapon before.

She'd watched him shoot it, over and over, that very first winter on the run. Ever since, she'd always admired the way he handled that bow. With it, he had provided their group with both protection and sustenance, both on the road and later at the prison. Not only that, but it had never seemed to her the sort of weapon just anyone could use, day in and day out. She guessed it must have taken him a hell of a lot of training and practice—not to mention strength—to wield it with any sort of skill; she could hardly pretend she hadn't noticed the way the muscles of his arms strained whenever he drew it.

While Beth still had the small pistol that she'd taken the day they fled, she'd run out of ammo long ago. She couldn't help but think how handy it would be able to shoot walkers from a distance again. And the crossbow had the extra advantage of being quiet.

She spoke then, without any preamble: "I…I know there's still a lot I don't know. About bein' out here." She motioned to the woods around them. When Daryl just stared at her, she realized she would just have to get right to the point: "Your offer. Does it still stand?" she added, feeling bold.

"My…offer?" He sounded taken aback.

"You know," she said, smiling at him. "You said you were gonna teach me how to use it. Your crossbow. Remember?"

"Oh." Relief washed over his features. _What the hell did he think I meant?_ she wondered. "Guess I did." He seemed both amused and yet uncertain, doing that chewing thing he did with his mouth when he was thinking on something.

"So…will you…?" she asked tentatively.

He shrugged. "I—uh. I was drunk." He spoke quietly, not quite meeting her eye.

"So was I," Beth grinned at him.

"Yeah. Guess you were." The corner of his mouth turned up; he still seemed oddly amused by her request.

"Okay…when can we start?" she asked, unable to hide her excitement.

"Whoa there, hold up." He put his hand up as if to slow her down. "Shootin's one thing. But it don't mean shit if you don't know what you're lookin' for. Or how to find it 'fore it finds you."

"What're you sayin'?" she wasn't sure what to think; it sounded almost as though he didn't want to teach her after all.

"You tell me," he said, looking at her intently.

Beth pondered for a moment, remembering not only the long-ago winter on the run, but also these more recent weeks since the prison. How Daryl navigated the woods with such ease. The way he read the forest around them like some internal map he had memorized by heart. How it seemed at times that he could sense things before they happened. She recalled—for how could she ever forget—her ill-fated attempt to find the children. _Maybe if I'd known more about it at the time…_

"I know," she said, looking up at him. "I need to know how to find things out here. How to track."

"That's right," he nodded. "If you're serious, I'll teach you."

"Course I am. Wouldn'tve asked if I didn't mean it." She stood up then, brushing off her jeans, and started toward the big oak tree.

"Hey," Daryl called after her. "Where'd you think you're goin', Greene?

"If I'm gonna learn, I should start at first light, right? So we'd better get some rest." Daryl just looked at her. She grinned down at him. "You comin'? Or you just gonna sit there by yourself all night?"

…

As their campfire burned steadily down to embers, they sat side by side a little space away, their backs resting against the big oak.

Without a word, Daryl had risen to follow her to the base of the tree. To her surprise, he had seated himself right at her side; his crossbow he rested on the opposite side of himself. As though its mere presence there at the edge of their camp was enough to guard against whatever lurked in the shadows beyond.

Beth hoped they would have no use for the big weapon tonight. Hoped they would not need it again until the morning. Until her lesson. She felt her heart begin to lighten merely at the thought of it. Of having _somethin'_ to look forward to, after all this time.

Though the oak's bark was no less sharp than earlier, she rested easier now. She had discovered that if she arranged the backpack behind her at a certain angle, the ridges didn't dig so painfully into her spine. Still, having slept most of the day away, it would be a while before sleep would claim her again.

She felt decidedly odd tonight. It wasn't like being buzzed the previous evening, when she'd been in some kind of delicious haze that she wished would never end. Last night, she had felt as though some part of her were slowly catching fire. Tonight, she felt that fire in every fiber of her being. As though anything she touched would be set alight. Or burst into flame.

Tonight, she couldn't blame it on the moonshine.

Beth looked over at the man sitting next to her. He was chewing on that rolled cigarette again. _Maybe it's his last one,_ she considered. "You ever gonna smoke that thing or what?" She nudged him playfully on the arm.

"You don't mind?" He sounded surprised.

"Why would I?" She didn't think he should stop doing whatever he needed on her account, especially not if it made him feel better. Comfort of any kind was precious, out here.

As Daryl reached into the back pocket of his faded brown jeans for a match, or lighter perhaps, and at the sudden movement, the feeling of skin against skin, her heartbeat quickened.

Beth didn't know how it had happened, but they were sitting close. Real close, their forearms almost touching—she could sense every movement of his arm as it brushed against her own. Her head was nearly level with his shoulder and she wondered if the stray wisps of her hair were tickling him. She smiled at the thought. _"God forbid you ever let anyone get too close."_ Had it really been only yesterday that she had shouted that to him? As he was now…well, Beth felt she could easily sit here beside him all night.

For a moment, just the briefest of moments, something irresistible, irrepressible came over her, and she let her head tilt to the side, to rest upon his shoulder. The warmth that flooded from him was almost overwhelming, as though the very sun had soaked into him and now emanated from his skin. She expected him to jerk away, but when he said nothing and made no sudden movement, she closed her eyes, rested there a little longer.

When she opened her eyes once more, she thought perchance that sleep had indeed overtaken her and she had fallen into some kind of dreamland. Because that was when she saw them. Little lights, blinking in the darkness. _Fireflies._

They must've been out for a while now; she didn't know how she hadn't noticed them sooner. As she watched them, a strange sensation came over her. Something in her gut, twisting painfully, only this time not with the remnants of too much moonshine. After a moment, her head still nestled against him, she nudged Daryl and whispered. "Look."

The man had said not a word the whole time she'd been leaning against him. He remained silent for a little while longer now. His eyes followed to where she pointed toward the faint lights flashing slowly against the darkness of the trees. She felt him shift beneath her then. "Ain't seen any 'round these parts in a while," he finally said.

Her heart fluttered wildly, then. For as he spoke, the low murmur of his voice rumbled right through her, all the way from the top of her head, through her body, and down to the very tips of her booted toes.

She drew a small, steadying breath and reluctantly lifted her head from the warmth of his bare skin to peer up at him. "Yeah, I remember. Before the turn, I heard folk say they were disappearin'. From certain parts of the state. That maybe it was climate change or pesticides killin' them off or something. I remember feelin' sad about it." She paused for a moment, breathing the night air into her lungs, as though in reassurance. "Maybe now there's not so many chemicals 'n stuff, they came back again."

"Yeah, maybe," Daryl agreed, looking straight ahead. He still hadn't lit the damn cigarette, but held it between his teeth, chewing on it thoughtfully as he considered her theory. "Before your farm," he glanced down at her briefly, "we were at this camp, outside Atlanta."

"Oh, I remember," Beth said, intrigued that he'd bring it up again now. "Glenn told us a little about it, that winter."

Daryl nodded. "Yeah, well…it got overrun. And after, Rick had this notion. He took us to a place. The CDC…Center for Disease somethin' or other. He was tryin' to find someone. Someone to help. Someone with a cure. But there was just this one guy there. Some scientist. Jenner, I think his name was—he said somethin'. I ain't thought on it for a while, but he said that this here," and he gestured around them, "is our 'extinction event'."

Before, Beth might have been shocked by such a statement. But now… "You think he was right?" she asked.

"Dunno, the dude was—well, like I said, he was nuts. Stone-cold crazy. Son-of-a-bitch even tried to blow us all up." Daryl shrugged, a slight smile on his lips. "But maybe he was right. Maybe all them movies was right. Maybe, if this ever blows over, the earth'll be ruled giant bugs or somethin'. Maybe even these fellas," he added, pointing up at the fireflies.

 _He's joking._ Beth hadn't taken the man for a fan of cheesy sci-fi movies, but it made an odd sort of sense. She had to smile at that. The fireflies were an unexpected yet welcome presence, and she wouldn't be dissuaded from enjoying the moment. "All I know," she told him, "is they remind me of when I was a kid. Sittin' on the porch with Maggie on summer evenings. We used to catch them and put them in jars. With holes in the top of course." When Daryl didn't answer, she nudged him again. "C'mon. Don't tell me you never caught fireflies in fruit jars before."

Daryl paused for a moment, looking up into the night. "We called them lightnin' bugs," he said eventually, still staring into the darkness. "And yeah I caught them," his voice was soft as he turned towards to her, "but I never bothered with no jars."

He lifted his hand then from his other side, and she saw it was clasped around something. Just as he had earlier, with the berries, he gently pressed whatever it was into her hand, folding her fingers around his closed fist, holding his hand over her own. He let go, and Beth looked down and saw a faint light between her fingers.

"Oh," she gasped. The little creature flitted against her palm. It glowed brightly, just for a moment, and then rose steadily into the air.

Beth regarded the man beside her, and felt as though she were seeing him for the first time.

He met her gaze, and held it.

Something was burning there, in his eyes. In the very spaces between them.

In the end, it was she who had to look away. She kept her gaze fixed upon the fireflies as they synchronized their flashing, and then faded into the night sky.

…

 _Hey. I know it's been a while. I haven't written because something happened. Something real bad. And for a long time, I didn't know if we were gonna make it. You see, it's just me and Daryl now._

 _After the day Zach died, everything seemed to fall apart. People got really sick, some died and turned before anyone could stop them. People got bit. Daddy helped, he saved the people he could. Glenn was so sick and Daddy saved him. Once Daryl and the others got back to the prison with the medicine, I really thought everything was going to be okay. We needed a break. Too many were dead or weak from the sickness. But that's when he came. The crazy man from before. The Governor. Rick tried to stop him, but he had Michonne and…Daddy. He killed Daddy. It hurts to actually write that down, in here. But its true: he killed Daddy. Right in front of me and Maggie. Then his tank took the fences down and we had no choice but to run. I know in my heart that others must have got out. The bus, Maggie, maybe even Glenn. I didn't see Rick or Michonne, but maybe they got away. Carl, too. They're strong. Strong enough to survive, out here._

 _But what I don't know is…the kids. I couldn't find Judy. I tried, but the prison was burning, and Daryl… well, he and I got out together. We tried to track the kids but… I know Daryl thinks they're gone. Maybe they are. I know we don't always get to have funerals. I know there isn't always a body. But without seeing, without knowing, sometimes it all just doesn't seem real, you know? With Daddy, I saw it happen. I wish we hadn't had to leave him like that. I wish we could have buried him. But at least I know. Everyone else, they could still be out there. If Judy is out there, please let her be with someone who can take care of her. I miss her so bad it hurts. I miss Maggie. I miss Daddy. I miss them all._

 _I know Daryl misses them too. But he's got his own way of dealing with things. The last couple days, he's been helping me. He even helped me find a drink. A real drink. I know Daddy wouldn't approve, but I think maybe this one time he'd understand._

 _Daryl's promised to teach me how to shoot his crossbow. How to track. We're starting this morning, so I gotta go for now. I'll write again later, if I can._

…

Beth had awoken early—though, truth be told, she hadn't even remembered falling asleep. How she'd ended up back beside their little fire she had no idea. The last thing she remembered was sitting beside the tree, beside _him._ Sitting and chatting like they'd always been that comfortable. _Like we've always been that close._

She had a sneaking suspicion that Daryl must have stayed awake most of the night again keeping watch. She guessed she'd fallen asleep against that tree and her companion had somehow moved her, had made sure that, as usual, she got more rest than he did. _Even though I know he needs it more than me_ , she thought. _He's gotta be exhausted._

Daryl had disappeared behind a tree a few moments earlier—no doubt to relieve himself, and as she waited for him to return, she'd taken the chance to finish scribbling in her journal. As she read back what she had written there, the words on the page seemed somehow empty, inadequate, as if words alone could never convey the depth of such horror and loss. Beth had hoped that writing it down would somehow make it hurt less keenly. But now, all she could see before her were her father's last, terrible moments. She knew she'd have to push it down, push it away, right this minute, or else she'd never be able to focus on the task that lay ahead of her today, the task she had essentially begged to undertake. _Daddy would want this_ , she thought, _he'd want me to be able to take care of myself out here._

Peaceful, her daddy had always called the woods. Sometimes Beth felt the same, in the mornings when the pale light filtered through the lattice of leafy branches and everything looked fresh and new. This morning, the leaves and shoots of grass beneath the roots of the tree where she'd fallen asleep were covered in dew. Her shirt was still damp and she was already hot and sticky. She could already feel fresh mosquito bites on her skin from the night before. She knew probably had bits of leaves and twigs and even a few creepy-crawlies in her hair too, but she didn't care. She was glad to be alive, this morning. Moments such as this rarely lasted long, she knew that all too well. _All the more reason to make the most of it while it lasts._

While she was lost in thought, Daryl had returned. He was packed and ready to go, the bulky backpack covering all but the tips of the angel wings on his vest, his crossbow slung over top of it. With the toe of his boot he nudged dirt and dried leaves over the remnants of their little fire.

"Come on," he urged her, "the day ain't waitin." He was insistent as always, but there was a playful eagerness to his tone this morning.

Beth stood up and quickly closed her journal. She slid the pen between its rings and slipped the little green book into the back pocket of her jeans. Out of habit, she looked around the small clearing, one last glance to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. Their campfire was just ashes now. The few possessions they had between them were either on their person or in that pack. _'Sides,_ she thought, with a smile, _the only thing I've got is in front of me._ Brushing dewy leaves and grass from her jeans, she set one foot in front of the other, and determined as ever, followed Daryl out of the clearing.

When she reached his side he had stopped, just past the grove of river birch where he'd set the snare the previous day. Crouched low, his attention was absorbed by something in front of them on the forest floor. "Cm'here," Daryl said, his voice just above a whisper.

Gently, he brushed a few leaves away from something on the ground. Beth knelt down close to him to get a better look, expecting to see the sad, limp form of another small animal trapped there. But she peered closer and could just make out faint marks in the damp earth below. _Tracks._

"If we keep real quiet," Daryl said, "we might just see a deer."

"I'd like that," Beth said, and she meant it.

…

They hiked through the morning, walking alongside the bank of the stream, just as Daryl had said. At a certain point, he lifted his hand—the signal to halt; she knew it well by now. Daryl showed her how the deer they'd been following had crossed the stream, which had widened considerably at this point as it cut a swathe through a deep ravine. They were crouched down again, to get a better look at the tracks. Something must have spooked it, Daryl explained, for it to have taken any path other than that of the least resistance.

"Walkers?" Beth tried to keep her voice steady.

"Maybe," Daryl said. "Or maybe it didn't much like the sound of us." There was that slight smile again, she noticed. "Before everythin' went to shit," he continued, "some who called 'emselves hunters relied on nothin' more'n fancy gadgets and tricks. But I always said, all you need are these two eyes, right here," he gestured towards her face, and a callused fingertip brushed against the ridge of her cheekbone. "'s how I was taught," he added quietly. "Just how things were done, in the old days."

"Your dad?" She wasn't sure if she should even ask, but she couldn't help it—she was curious. Curious about him. About the past he kept so well-guarded. The life he'd led, before she had chanced to know him, here at the end of the world. She'd found that once he'd started telling her things, she wanted to know more. Even the things he'd called 'ugly,' back on that porch.

But he just nodded, before continuing on the topic at hand: "There's lot more to it than just what's on the ground. Here," he reached past her to point to the base of a tree, to a spot where its thick bark had been scraped away, revealing the bare wood underneath. "See that, Greene?" he said, his voice suddenly close to her ear.

She managed not to be startled, and peered closer. "Yeah, I see it."

"That there's a deer rub. A whitetail's been rubbin' his antlers," he said, his voice still low and scratchy. "A young buck, most like. Rubbin' the velvet right off. Marks like this, they help you find the trail. And where there's one, more'll follow."

 _All I gotta do is pay attention to the signs._ Beth felt her confidence growing as she began to absorb what he had just imparted. She looked down at the soft ground at the base of the tree, and there they were: "There's more tracks here—bigger ones," she said excitedly, before remembering to keep her voice down.

"Mmhm," he murmured, "That's right." Daryl looked at her, then, and she once again saw that little hint of a smile dance across his face. "Ain't all tracks and rub marks on trees though," he added. "Later, I'll teach you to follow a blood trail."

Blood—it seemed there was no escape from it, nowadays. "Yes, Mr. Dixon," she said with mock politeness, as if she were back on the farm, speaking to her piano tutor.

Daryl rose then, and she felt the warm grasp of his fingers upon her arm as he likewise lifted her, without a single word, to her feet.

The morning sun shone upon them through the trees, illuminating her companion's rough features, and Beth could sense that something in his demeanor had lightened. She'd been surviving in the woods with the man for weeks now, and during that time he had seemed somehow on edge. Like some trapped, wounded beast, always on the brink of raging, clawing its way through the torn and mangled remains of their lives.

And later, even that raging fire inside him had seemed to fade, to just a dark smolder. Barely existing. It hadn't been just the constant threat of walkers, either, nor even the loss of the prison that had nearly extinguished that spark. She'd even wondered, for a time, if he might've been waiting. _Waitin' for us both to just…_ she shivered with the memory of his shadowed resignation.

But then, the night of the moonshine, the night of the cabin, something had changed. And now this morning, Daryl was the most relaxed—the most _alive_ —that she'd seen him in, well, a long time. _He's really enjoyin' this_ , she realized. _And so am I._

Together, they left the banks of swift-running stream behind, and walked along the ridge of the ravine, following the path the whitetail had taken along the edge of the forest.

Wherever it might lead—to a herd of undead, to shelter, to living, breathing people, or to yet more wilderness—Beth dared not dwell on it. She thought only of learning to see more signs in the leaves, bark, and earth, and of the man who was teaching her.

 _Whatever we find out here,_ she thought with a little smile, _at least it's better than sittin' 'round a fire eatin' mudsnakes for the rest of our lives._

…

* * *

 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	3. Wild Horses

"Never had a pet pony. Never got nothin' from Santa Claus. Never relied on anyone for protection before. Hell, I don't think I've ever relied on anyone for anything!"

\- Daryl Dixon, 'Still'

"All I wanted to do today was lay down and cry, but we don't get to do that."  
\- Beth Greene, 'Still'

…

At the edge of the woods, Beth stopped in her tracks. "Daryl, look."

Before them stood a broken-down wooden fence; beyond it stretched a wide, overgrown pasture. Wiping sweat from her brow and swatting a mosquito from her neck, Beth peered across the expanse of the field. If she squinted, she could just make out what appeared to be a barn or stable on the other side. "Maybe it's safe." She hoped he'd take the hint.

It had been yet another full day of walking and running through the forest and Beth was exhausted. During today's tracking lesson, they'd encountered only a small group of walkers, feasting on…something. Daryl said it was a deer, but she hadn't looked too closely. The walkers had been distracted by their meal; together, she and her companion had approached silently and dispatched them with practiced ease.

The small group of walkers had been the only they'd encountered that day, but a few miles later they had come to a dusty stretch of road at the edge of the trees. Cautiously, they had emerged from the shelter of the tall pines and approached the dirt track. There, they had found the haphazard, trampling marks of a herd. It wasn't as large as the one that had taken down her daddy's farm, but it was near as big as those that had frequently stalked the fences of the prison. Whatever the size, the fact that there were herds on the move at all in this area had unnerved them both—the edginess had returned to Daryl's stance, the grim set to his mouth. After that, he had picked up the pace once more, and pushed them hard.

For weeks now, they had tried to avoid roads whenever possible. Beth had grown used to the cover of the forest, to the shadows of the silent pines and the shade of the broad, mossy oaks. Standing out there on that road earlier she'd felt exposed and vulnerable. _Maybe that's why we haven't seen a single livin' person all this time. Maybe they all stayed on the roads and…_ She tried to banish the thought immediately. Despite the heat of the late afternoon, she felt a shiver pass through her.

All day the air had hung humid and heavy around them, with a charged stillness about it. Now, the sun was lowering behind the trees, and Beth could make out some darker clouds against the horizon. _If only we could find some decent shelter, even just for one night._ She glanced over at Daryl—he too seemed weary, his hair plastered to his sweat-and-grime-covered face. He must have sensed her own exhaustion as, without a word, he handed her a water bottle. With a little smile, Beth took a sip, and silently handed it back.

She looked once more toward the distant building. It stood there, tempting her—all they had to do was cross that field. "Do you think it's safe?" she asked again.

"Only one way to find out." Daryl squinted at the expanse of grass before them. "But go slow. And watch out for swamp rattlers, like I showed you."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon," she grinned at him. Without wasting another moment, Beth ducked under a broken fence rail, and tentatively stepped forward.

Immediately, she was engulfed in a sea of grass interspersed with wildflowers and great stalks of weeds, so tall they reached past her shoulder. _Like walking through a miniature forest..._

She had only taken a few tentative steps when there was a flash of red and yellow—a red-winged blackbird flew up from its perch amongst the tall reeds. She halted, briefly startled. For a moment, she wondered if this was a good idea, but she wouldn't turn back now. Fingering the hilt of her knife, Beth pressed on.

Foliage parted before her, thin stalks bending graciously to let her pass. Once through, they sprang upright again, tickling her bare arms and grazing her hips. Delicate petals of Queen Anne's Lace caressed her face with each step. In the midst of her careful progress she glanced behind, catching a glimpse of Daryl, his crossbow held high above the grass. He seemed to be hanging back, looking toward the edge of the wood, checking to make sure nothing had emerged to follow them.

The lightest of breezes began to stir the sea of grass around her into gentle, undulating waves, an ocean of sage and silver beneath a lowering sky. She closed her eyes, briefly, and let the light wind flow over her sweat-stained brow, let it cool her face and send the matted wisps of her hair dancing across her eyes. For just a breath or two she paused, thinking to let her companion catch up to her, and then she opened her eyes again, slowly.

Standing still amidst the tall, swaying grasses, she watched as a tiny, cream-colored moth flitted between wildflowers—Indian paintbrushes of fire-orange and red, and cornflowers of periwinkle blue. As the little ghost of a creature danced away in the wind, she heard Daryl's quiet approach. She could sense him now, could feel his steady presence just a few paces behind her. Before taking another step, she glanced downward, scanning the ground for rattlers, just like he'd said. Seeing no slithering serpent, she drew a deep breath and then carried on.

With each footfall, Beth tried to keep an eye on where she stepped, but it was not easy as the foliage was so thick she could barely see the ground. The earth was dry, for now, but even so she knew the field could easily turn into swamp or marshland beneath her boots at any moment, and so she tread as lightly as possible. Every so often she would glance over her shoulder for a quick, reassuring view of her companion. But more often than not, she found herself looking firmly ahead, peering through the stalks of weeds and wildflowers, keeping the still-distant building in sight.

Her stomach clenched tightly with anticipation as to what the place would prove to be. A barn, or stable, surely. But what else? Somewhere to rest for the night? Shelter from the approaching storm? Or yet another death trap, like the country club had almost been? Whatever it was…whatever it would be, it still seemed far, too far ahead, and their progress painfully slow.

She had waded halfway across the field when it happened.

She didn't see it; she couldn't have seen it. But she felt it: nails clawing, grasping, pulling at her booted ankle. The next thing she knew, she was down, the late afternoon sky reeling above her. The soft grasses cushioned her fall, and she reacted with what speed she could, knife firmly in her grasp, stabbing at the decaying hand that gripped her.

"Beth! BETH!" she heard Daryl shout. His voice seemed so far away.

Much closer was a familiar sound: the slavering of a hungry walker. The thick grass hid most of its face—and teeth—from her view, but its other hand was snaking towards her now. _If it gets 'hold of both my legs, I won't be gettin' back up,_ she realized in horror. A sudden surge of strength came to her and she slashed the knife savagely, severing the undead thing's hand at the wrist. The grey, decaying fingers remained clinging, grotesquely, to her boot.

She heard movement then through the grass, _swish, swish_ ; the walker's snarl, the _thwunk_ of a crossbow bolt, a grunt, swearing, the sound of stabbing, and then, silence.

"Daryl?" She still couldn't see him.

"Beth!" she heard him shout back, and then he was there, looming above her, his crossbow raised, his knife dripping, dark with blood.

He looked down at her, his eyes wild with terror. "Jesus, Beth, you went down like that and I thought—" Daryl shook his head, beads of sweat flying from his hair. Sheathing his knife, he reached down, helped her to her feet. "You alright?" He sounded breathless. Still holding her by the elbow in an iron grip, she felt his keen eyes roam over her, quickly checking for bites or scratches. When he noticed the severed hand still clinging to her ankle, he heaved a sigh of relief. "Close call, huh, Greene?"

"Nearly had it this time," she told him, though she could hear the unsteadiness of her own voice. She pried the fingers off her boot, and flung the hand as far away from her as possible. "Did you…finish it?"

"Yeah, took some doin'," he said. "Look." Carefully, Daryl guided her to where the walker lay in the tall grass. Its hand was missing where she'd cut it off and one of its legs looked askew, like some child's doll that had been cast aside, broken. She could see now why it had just been lying there in the grass, waiting.

She sucked in a breath at the gruesome sight. _And here I was lookin' for rattlesnakes._

For all became clear to her as she peered closer. The now-dead corpse—which had once been a small woman—was clad in a faded pink polo shirt, not unlike the yellow garment she'd scavenged from the country club. It also sported a pair of tall leather boots and a hard, black riding helmet. No wonder it had been hard to kill, its head was almost completely protected. One of its eyes had been stabbed out, and a crossbow bolt protruded from its neck. Thick, black blood seeped from the gash in its throat. She watched as it oozed slowly, dripping down onto a blade of grass, and wondered that something so long dead could still bleed at all.

Daryl, as always, seemed unfazed by the undead thing he'd just slain. He knelt to pry out the bolt; Beth knew that if he had the chance, he never wasted one.

And yet, as he stood his eyes narrowed slightly, and his gaze fell darkly upon her, like a sudden shadow across the sun. He chewed at his bottom lip for a moment. "Damn grass blocked my view some" he explained, all quiet and husky-voiced. "Had to get up real close. Kept me from…" he trailed off.

 _He's upset,_ she realized. They'd had countless close calls in situations far more dangerous, so she wasn't sure why this was different. But she felt it in herself, as well—the tightness in her throat, the shakiness of her breath, the desperate racing of her heart at how close they had strayed, to the very edge of separation.

She drew in a deep breath. "'m sorry. But somewhere to stay, after so long…it was just…so…temptin'."

"Hey, ain't your fault." He still sounded distraught—choked, almost, as though a bolt had lodged itself in his throat, too. "I shouldn't 've—"

"Don't—" Beth's voice shook, ever so slightly. It had been such a long day; it had been such a close call. "Don't. We're both so tired…"

Daryl looked at her, and nodded.

"Anyway," she heaved a sigh, steadying herself. "We're okay. That's all that matters."

When he didn't reply, she started walking forward again.

"Hold up. You still gonna try for it?" Daryl called to her from where he still stood, squinting in the direction of the distant building.

She looked back over her shoulder. "We made it this far. 'Sides, it's gonna be dark soon. Unless, of course, you'd rather camp out in this here field, with walkers and rattlers?"

Disbelief and admiration warred on Daryl's face for a moment, but he followed close behind, and was soon at her side.

Together, they went slow and careful, watching the ground—and each other—like a pair of hawks.

Moving at a steady pace, they soon put the field and its hidden horrors behind them. As the late afternoon sky deepened into evening, they reached the stable yard.

…

As usual, there was no need for words. The area around the stable seemed quiet, but they had to make sure. First, they explored an abandoned pick-up truck in the yard, its doors flung wide open. It was backed up to an overturned horse trailer that was beginning to show signs of rust. As always, they checked the battery on the vehicle—and, as always, it was dead.

Finally, they walked quietly to the fence and checked the front paddock. All stood empty.

A dirt driveway led behind the stable, past a cluster of trees. What lay beyond that, they could not see, but Beth was more than a little familiar with country set-ups like this. There was likely a house further down the drive. Maybe even two, a big one for the owner, another for the farmhands. She looked at Daryl, and the answer hung unspoken between them: the stormy sky, the herd of walkers that had to be close behind. With a single nod from him, she knew: they would check the stable first, and then decide what to do.

Only then did they cautiously approach the open breezeway. Close up, Beth could discern that the building was one of modern construction, with metal roofing and siding. A faded green and white painted sign over the entrance read: _Windhaven Riding Stables_. Daryl rapped on the outer wall a few times, and gave it a long moment. Nothing. He nodded to Beth, and then walked in first, his bow lowered. She followed, her knife poised, ready to strike, close behind him. When nothing jumped out at them immediately, they started down the aisle.

As Beth's eyes adjusted to the gloom, a faint, yet familiar scent wafted over her—a mix of dust, horse sweat, and long-decomposed manure. It smelled like peace, and quiet. It smelled like home.

Walking past a closed door on the right, Daryl tried it first, but as the handle wouldn't budge they left it for the moment. Looking down the aisle, Beth observed that the stall doors were open, and she noticed that many of the halters were missing. As they passed each stall, her gaze was drawn to the brass plaques on each door: _Strider. Romeo. Peaches. Ziggy. Skywalker_.

Tears welled, suddenly, as the horses from her former life came back to her: nervous Nelly, sweet Belle, swift Silver, and reliable old General. Maggie had always been the more enthusiastic, or perhaps reckless, rider, but Beth had _loved_ those horses. Their barn had burned the night the herd of walkers had overrun their farm—the night she'd lost Jimmy; the night Patricia had been ripped from her hands.

Beth knew it might seem absurd to weep for horses of all things, nowadays. Growing up on a farm, she was no stranger to losing livestock now and then. But, if anything, since the world had turned, the deaths of domestic animals seemed even crueler than before. Innocent, faithful creatures, their lives entwined with humans, and yet so often they were sacrificed, left abandoned to fates they didn't deserve…or worse. She'd heard tell of folk who'd had to eat their own horses or even dogs when times were lean over the winter. She'd heard what had happened to the piglets during the outbreak at the prison. She had been glad that it hadn't come to that for the horses, not at her daddy's farm and not at the prison. At least, out in the woods the wild animals stood a chance. Unlike livestock and pets, trapped in their pens or homes, the creatures of the forest could run—from both the living and the dead.

They continued down the aisle, Daryl's crossbow raised, aimed at whatever ghosts might still be lurking in the dusty shadows of this place. Beth stuck close to his side. However familiar this pace felt to her, she'd take no more chances. Not today. And yet it was becoming clear that the stable wasn't overrun, not like the country club had been. Other than their frighteningly close call in the overgrown pasture earlier, the place was eerily devoid of movement.

As they made their way back down the long row of stalls, a streak of gray caught Beth's eye. She whirled around. Daryl aimed. The gray streak stopped in its tracks, its yellow eyes gleaming. It hissed, loudly. "Aww. It's just a little cat," she breathed with relief.

"Here, kitty," Daryl said softly, lowering his bow. He knelt down and called to it again in that light, sing-songy tone Beth had only ever heard him use with Judith. "C'm here, kitty, we ain't gonna hurt you." The creature, which had a long, shaggy gray coat that was so badly matted it looked more like a bathroom rug than a cat, just hissed at them again and darted out the door. "Probably ain't seen a livin' person in a long time," said Daryl. Underneath his nonchalance, she could sense her companion's disappointment that the cat hadn't come any closer.

"Maybe it'll come 'round later," she said with a tentative smile. "That is, if…" If they were going to remain here for the night, they'd have to decide soon. "Is it safe enough, d'you think?" Beth asked finally. "Or should we try further down that dirt road? It's not getting any lighter, and the air… I think a storm's comin'." The words tumbled out of her in a tired sigh. She was bone-weary.

Daryl didn't answer straight away. Instead, he scanned the aisle once more, his gaze falling first on the locked door they'd tried earlier to no avail, and then to a rack holding some dusty lead-ropes near the entrance. He strode over to it and held up a small key in triumph. He tried it on the locked door; with a click, it opened.

"Your lucky day, Greene," Daryl said. He raised his bow, kicked the door open with his boot, and peered through the doorway. He turned back toward her slightly, motioning that she should stay. Cautiously, he entered. After a few moments, he called out to her: "All clear!"

Beth entered after him. It was dark inside and a stale, musty odor greeted her, but she'd smelled far worse these days. Soon her eyes adjusted and she glanced around. A thin shaft of light filtered in from a small window high overhead, illuminating a row of ribbons and trophies, faded remnants of a world room was almost entirely paneled in some kind of dark wood, with saddle and bridle racks mounted on the far wall beneath the small window. Many of the saddles were missing; some had been dumped unceremoniously onto the concrete floor. Cobwebs hung from the high ceiling, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

Despite the dust and what looked to be mice droppings on the floor, Beth had to admit that it seemed safer than any place they'd been in a long time. No sign of walkers in there, and the only window was too high for any to reach. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to the person who had locked the door, yet left the key behind.

As they searched shelves and rifled through cabinets, looking amongst expired de-worming kits and hoof varnish for supplies they could actually use, she noticed a desk in the corner opposite the door. Curious, she walked over to it. It seemed the room had once functioned not only as a place for tack storage, but as an office as well. Beth tried and failed not to think of her daddy and his veterinary practice back on the farm. Her daddy, making lists for runs in his makeshift office back at the prison.

While quickly scanning the paper-strewn surface for anything they could use, her eyes fell upon a calendar. The dates and most of the writing had faded, but a note in bright red ink was still legible: _Vicky and Sarah on stall duty Fri and Sat. Charlene to teach walk/trot lessons for Fri. The kids will need help tacking up their ponies._ Beth's throat tightened. _Kids. Ponies. The girls who worked here._ She didn't want to know which of those names had been out there, in that field.

The squeak of a hinge brought her out of her thoughts; Daryl had been searching through some of the cupboards—looking for food, no doubt, she guessed. He made one last check of the door to the tack room, locked it from the inside, pocketed the key, and then strode over and seated himself against the far wall beside a rack of saddles with a groan of exhaustion. He leaned his crossbow against the wall beside him, just within reach. Taking out a rag from the backpack, he started cleaning his knife.

Beth walked over to him, sat down on his other side, and sighed. It felt amazing to rest her legs, and she stretched them out in front of her. She took this rare chance to remove her boots, which were filled with dirt, dried leaves, and grass seeds. As soon as she'd emptied them, blissfully stretching and wiggling her aching toes, she promptly pulled them back on. It was always the same; as Daryl always said, sooner or later, they'd have to run.

Sitting on the hard floor, their backs resting against the cool wooden panels of the wall, they shared a meager meal between them: the last remnants of jerky—squirrel or rabbit, she couldn't remember— a candy bar, and a pack of sealed potato chips Daryl had found inside one of the cupboards near the door. Beth savored the salty crunch of the chips, a taste she hadn't experienced in a long time.

Sitting there in the quietness, she remembered her diary then, tucked away in her back pocket. She considered writing in it, but her thoughts were jumbled. It was growing dark, and she was just so tired…

"You know," Daryl's gravelly voice broke into her trailing thoughts. "Big place like this, all them fancy stalls, you'd think we'd have seen, you know, some _remains_ or somethin'. Sorry," he added, at the expression that must have crossed her face, "It's just that there ain't a single horse, dead or alive, in here. Or anywhere near here. No horse shit, and no hoofprints, neither. Not recent, anyway."

Beth had noticed that as well. "Maybe they knew things were gettin' bad. Maybe they ran out of hay to feed them. Or maybe they just let them out into the big field, to fend for themselves. It would have been a kindness, rather than keepin' them in here, waitin' for the stable to be overrun." She paused for a moment. "When there's a fire," she continued, "or a natural disaster, the thing to do is let the horses run free, they have a better chance that way."

"A 'natural disaster', that's one way to put it," Daryl snorted. "Seems these folk cared more about them horses than their own lives."

"And why not?" Beth demanded. "Those horses must've been like family to them. Some people would do anything to protect their family." She gave Daryl a pointed look. When he didn't reply, she pressed on. "Anyway, I thought you _liked_ horses. I saw you pettin' Flame when you thought no one was lookin'."

"Flame? Was that what she was called? And here I thought we weren't supposed to name them."

Daryl couldn't fool her. He could feign disinterest all he wanted, but she knew the man had to have spoken to Michonne about her beloved steed. Beth recalled the leggy chestnut mare, the one the skilled swordswoman had taken out on her long searches for the elusive Governor. "It suited her," Beth insisted. "She was fiery…and full of life." She didn't dare think what might have befallen the loyal, courageous mare after the prison had fallen.

As she spoke, he kept glancing at her with a look of amusement, and she could see a slight smile in the upturned corners of his mouth.

"Well, she _was_ ," she insisted. "Anyway, namin' them, it was mostly for…for Judy." Beth didn't know why she felt she had to explain, but she did. "I used to take her out to visit the horses, on quiet days. Thought she could do with seein'…well, nevermind." She paused, then, swallowing hard. "Don't you like them?" she asked him again. "Horses, I mean." For some reason, it seemed important.

Daryl had been fiddling with his knife, but as she spoke of Lil' Asskicker he had paused for a moment. He was now looking at her in that strange manner, the way he had ever since the night they'd burned the cabin down. Beth was becoming practiced at staring right back.

Finally, he looked away, down at the floor, and cleared his throat. "Sure, I like horses, same as anyone. A bike's less like to buck you off, is all."

Beth smiled at that, recalling his ill-fated excursion on Nelly back at the farm. "You must miss it," she said, and he looked back up at her. "Your bike. It was your brother's, right?" Daryl nodded, and she continued, "I'm real sorry you had to leave it behind."

He just shrugged. "Always was too damn noisy."

However he might try to make light of it, Beth knew that losing that motorcycle must have been a blow. As long as she'd known him, it had seemed just as much a part of him as that crossbow—something she'd never imagined him without. Out of habit, she fingered the broken heart-pendant on its leather cord around her neck. It was only a little thing, a cheap bauble, but it was the last thing her momma had bought for her. How sad for Daryl, that he had lost that final memento of his brother.

"I never…" she started, then faltered for a moment. "I never really told you how grateful I was for what your brother—for what Merle did, for all of us."

"No need," he said, quietly. "Don't matter now."

"Bullshit," she blurted, without thinking. But if that line of reasoning were true, then _nothing_ they'd ever done in their whole lives would matter at all. She knew he couldn't really mean it. "Of course it matters," she continued, more gently. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, just for a moment. "You know it does."

Daryl didn't respond for a long time, and seemed to stare off into a dark corner of the room. "You know," he said, finally, "you got a way of noticin' things. About places, people."

"I do?"

"Mmhm. 'S no wonder you're catchin' on so quick. With the trackin'."

Beth smiled at that. "So… you think I'm good."

"For a beginner," he teased. "Still got a long ways to go, Greene."

"You think I'm _good_ ," she said, grinning. Outright praise from Daryl most days was as rare as a home-cooked meal at the end of the world. Maybe he was just humoring her, but Beth felt herself beaming at his words all the same.

Daryl gazed at her intently. "Tell you what. I'm starved. That candy bar didn't even come close to hittin' the spot. How 'bout we start at first light, track us somethin' real nice."

"Alright," she said, staring up at him. It's what they did every day now, but the way Daryl said it had made it sound, to her, like the most exciting thing in the world.

He cleared his throat. "Best get some sleep, then."

"How're we gonna do that in _here_?" Beth gestured toward the hard, filthy floor. It was no worse than sleeping on dirt and leaves, she supposed, but at least a bed of grass and decaying leaves didn't dig into her seat-bones like this, hard as rock. And yet, at this point she was drained beyond all caring.

Daryl reached over to the saddle rack beside him, lifted up a fancy English saddle, and pulled one of the faux sheepskin saddle pads out from under it. He dusted it off, rolled it up, and placed it at his side. He patted the makeshift pillow. "Like this," he motioned. "Here."

Beth was too tired to object. They'd slept close before—if one could call it sleeping—every night out there in their makeshift camps, with only the tiniest of shelters, or no shelter at all. Back-to-back on the forest floor, or propped up against a tree, one of them always keeping watch. Out there, there was nothing between them and the walkers but a string of cans as a warning, a stream or ravine if they were lucky. Out there, it was simply practical to remain as close together as possible. _This is no different_ , she told herself. _And yet…_

Dismissing any further thought, Beth lay down upon the dusty floor. She rested her head on the saddle pad, which still smelled comfortingly of horse, and curled her legs into her chest. Daryl adjusted his own position; she knew he was making sure he could reach both his crossbow and knife if he needed them. He sat back and leaned against the wall, one arm behind his head. Beth caught a strong whiff of armpit then, the familiar scent of his sweat. Combined with the musty leather of the tack and the lingering equine scent, the aroma was heady. She hummed a little to herself under her breath, and soon she started to drift.

Half-asleep though she was, after a while she sensed Daryl begin to relax. As he did, his arm came down to rest beside her, somewhat awkwardly. He shifted again, as if trying to make himself more comfortable. Before she could even wonder what he was doing, she felt his hand near her head, his fingers feather-light against the wisps of hair that always escaped her ponytail. So light she thought could have been imagining it, until she felt the full warmth of his hand against the side of her head, his callused thumb coming to rest at the juncture of her ear and neck.

A faint sigh escaped her then, and snuggled further into the dusty saddle pad. Daryl stiffened momentarily, but his hand remained where it was, warm and reassuring against her hair, his arm resting heavily across her shoulder. For a moment, for a single, blissful moment, Beth imagined that nothing bad would happen ever again.

As she began to drift from wakefulness into dreams, an image of her father came to her, his eyes crinkling in a smile. Before she knew it, a few exhausted tears slid down her cheek into the saddle blanket.

But she would not succumb, no. She would not let him hear her, feel her weeping. So she squeezed her eyes shut, and willed her mind blank. And soon enough, she slipped into the deepest sleep she'd had in a long time.

…

She was back in the prison. _It's happening all over again_ , she thought. Everything was on fire, smoke billowed from the tower. Gunshots rang out in the yard, explosions sounded all around. People were screaming. A frantic whinny echoed from outside.

Above it all, _"Judith!"_ was Beth's only panicked thought.

Somehow, she found herself inside the old cellblock once more, amidst an all-too familiar scene of chaos. The roof above her head caved in and crumbling bits of ceiling, metal beams and debris fell all around her. She sprinted through the dark corridors, searching, searching, when she ran headlong into someone.

A familiar voice murmured, "Hey, beautiful."

"Zach? What are you doing here? I thought you were—"

"Dead?" he laughed. "Nah, that was only a bad dream."

Beth buried her head into his chest, as though it would block out the chaos around them. _I'm glad I didn't say good-bye,_ she thought.

"Guess what?" he told her excitedly, as though nothing were amiss. "I finally figured it out. I know what Daryl did."

Beth moved to tell him that now was not the time, she had to find Judith. But when she looked up again, he was taller than she remembered, and he smelled of cigarettes and old leather. "I was nobody," he rasped, his stubble scratching her forehead, his breath hot against her hair. "Nothing."

And then he was slipping away, as rotting, clawing fingers ripped him out of her grasp. _No,_ she wanted to scream. _Not like this. Not again…_

She woke with a start, in the dark.

A low rumble sounded overhead, followed by a pattering so loud it might have been rocks falling. _Rain._ For one confused moment Beth thought she was still in her prison cell and that it was time to fetch Judith for the day. But then, the last weeks came flooding back to her, and she remembered. _Daryl…_

With some consternation, she realized that she'd managed to wrap her arms around her companion while she slept, hugging him to her like a pillow. Somehow, while dreaming, she'd sought and found and latched onto the shirt under his vest, her fingers clinging tightly, finding purchase between the buttons so that they grazed the skin of his chest underneath. Her head now rested on his side, and the leather of his vest was stuck fast to her cheek. She could tell by his breathing that he was awake, too. He was always awake, this man. Sometimes she wondered if he ever slept at all.

Still clinging to him, Beth looked down and noticed he had his knife gripped firmly in his other hand. "Daryl," she whispered. "What is it?"

His face was in shadow, but she could just make out him putting a finger to his lips, motioning her to remain quiet. "Walkers. Passin' through. A little while ago," he murmured, his voice low and scratchy. "The rain. Best lie low 'til it's over."

Every detail of the terrifying night they had spent in the trunk of a car, while a lightning storm had raged outside and an entire herd of walkers passed through, was seared into Beth's mind. Neither of them had slept that night.

Here and now, she shivered, her arms instinctively tightening around Daryl. "Think they're still out there?" she asked into his vest. Not that it would make any difference; they had nowhere else to run, not in the middle of the night, not in the midst of a storm.

"Can't be sure 'til it's light. Or the rain stops."

Maybe it was the sound of the rain overhead, or maybe it was that second bottle of water she'd drunk earlier, but suddenly Beth felt as though her bladder were about to burst. _Dang it,_ she thought, sitting up. As she carefully disentangled herself from Daryl, she felt him release his breath, as though he'd been holding it all this time.

Standing up, she brushed the dust off her jeans, and started towards the other side of the room.

Before she was even a few steps away, Daryl leapt up and caught her by the arm. "Hey, where you goin'?" His voice was a low growl, his fingers clamped tightly around her wrist.

"I gotta pee," she whispered loudly, over the thundering rain, dancing on her toes in emphasis.

His grip tightened. "A piss ain't worth your life."

"Calm down, Mr. Dixon." Beth stifled a giggle when she realized what he was fretting over. _Sometimes he's worse than Shawn._ "You think I'd actually go out there, in all that rain?" she asked, in mock offense.

Daryl grunted at that, but released her from his grasp. "Just stay away from the door," he grumbled. "There's a bucket over there, behind that old fridge," he added, more quietly this time, nodding towards the far corner.

Beth had to admit that, after relieving herself behind bushes for weeks, a bucket seemed almost a luxury. After she finished, she turned to walk back, and saw her companion just a few feet away, near the office desk, facing the wall. " _Daryl_ ," she hissed.

He looked over his shoulder; in the dim light she could see what could only be a smirk playing on his lips. " _Someone_ was takin' too long usin' the bucket."

Beth scrunched her nose at him. Of course, she didn't really mind, but still, he could be such a _guy_ about these things. She yawned, and slid back down against the wall. She was still bone-tired, and she knew he must be, even more so. Carefully, she arranged the saddle pad at her side this time.

As she waited for him to finish, she noticed his crossbow where it rested, propped against the wall. Again, the strange pull tugged at her. Something about its shape was inviting, and made her want to reach out and touch it. In that moment, she couldn't seem to resist, and the weapon was cool and smooth beneath her hand. Gently, she traced a finger along its length, coming to rest upon the fletching of one of the bolts that jutted out to the side. She still hadn't shot the bow yet; she would have to make sure that Daryl remedied that soon.

Beth was just about to pull her hand away when she heard the shuffle of his boots across the dusty floor. She looked up, and he was suddenly standing over her. Absurdly, she blushed into the darkness, feeling as though she'd just been caught doing something forbidden. She wondered if he'd noticed.

When Daryl said nothing, she looked up at him. "Your turn," she told him, smiling.

He just stood there for a moment, confused. "Huh?"

"To sleep," she explained.

"Already did," he insisted.

Beth wasn't convinced. "No, you need to put your head down, and really _sleep_. I mean, sleep 'til you're snorin' kinda sleep. How long's it been anyway?" When he didn't move, she motioned for him to come closer. "Here," she gestured again to the floor beside her. "Lie down. I'll keep watch for a bit." He still hadn't budged. "I _will_ ," she insisted into the dark.

Daryl just grunted something unintelligible, and remained, for a moment, standing above her. Beth was about to reach up, take hold of him by his arm, and pull him down bodily when finally he knelt down beside her. Shifting himself, he stretched out onto the ground with a tired groan, and rested his head on the saddle pad on the floor at her side.

Above them the rain pounded hard against the metal roof of the stable, as though the sky had been holding back only to release a fresh deluge at this moment. If walkers were still out there, Beth didn't think they would hear anything over that storm. She wished she could block out everything so easily—the pounding overhead, the walkers outside…the dream. She knew what to do, then. Her voice was a bit hoarse and full of sleep, but ever so softly, she began to sing:

 _Faith has been broken, tears must be cried,_  
 _Let's do some living after we die._  
 _Wild horses, couldn't drag me away,_  
 _Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday…._

She trailed off, her voice breaking. That song had been one of her momma's favourites. She remembered her voice, the way it lilted when she'd sung it to it to her in days gone by, when Beth was only a child. Those days when her mother had still been so young herself, with long, fair hair flowing loose and golden over her slim shoulders. Those days when her mother had still been alive.

Beside her, she could feel that Daryl's breathing had slowed, and by the steady rise and fall of his chest and the faint, rattling snores, she knew that this time, he was truly asleep.

Beth kept one hand on the hilt of her knife; the other she laid gently upon his bare shoulder. She would let him rest until the storm passed. _Please,_ she pleaded into the dark, _let him sleep. And if he has any dreams, let them be good._

…

"You don't think we could, you know, stay here a little longer?" Beth asked. It was morning, and she and Daryl were stuffing the last of the horse bandages they'd found in the cupboard into their pack, making ready to leave.

"What's the matter, Greene? Suddenly you wanna sleep in?" Daryl teased. "Thought you knew there ain't no weekends no more."

"I _know_ ," she prodded his chest playfully. "It's just, we've got the key for the door. Maybe we could rest-up, stick around. Just for a little while."

He shook his head. "You know well as I do, one locked door ain't gonna keep out a herd. Not for long." Her disappointment must have shown on her face. "Sorry," he added quietly, "Beth, I…"

But she nodded, understanding. It had been wishful thinking on her part. The tack room had been safe enough for them to sleep in, for a night, but only just. Without more people, without the safety of numbers, securing the entire property was out of the question. All it had taken was one large herd moving through, and her family's entire farm had been destroyed. And even with a group, a single weak spot in a large place like the prison and…well, they had learned that lesson the hard way the day T-Dog and Lori died.

"Hey…there's gotta be some place, somewhere. Right?" She wouldn't give up the thought entirely. _Some place we could stay for more than a night. Some place we could just…be, even if only for a few days._

"Yeah, maybe." Daryl's hand was on her shoulder then, warm, reassuring. "We'll keep on lookin'. But first things first. Come on."

As they moved toward the stable doorway, Beth paused briefly. Taking a deep breath, she asked Daryl to lock the door to the tack room behind them, and to leave the little key where he'd found it, on its hook.

"Why?" he asked.

"Just in case."

"We ain't comin' back, Beth."

"I know. I just mean…in case someone else stops here, lookin' for shelter, some day."

Daryl just grunted at that, but he did as she'd asked without further comment.

The morning sky was still cloudy, but it had stopped raining and the air had cooled noticeably. In the yard outside, Beth could see the churned up mud, the chaotic footprints on the ground. Dozens of walkers had stumbled through in the night. Daryl met her eyes then, and she could almost hear his thoughts: _Best we didn't follow the road. If there was a house down there, might not be anymore._ Beth shuddered. There was no sign of the gray cat.

This time, they avoided crossing the meadow, with its tall grasses and wildflowers swaying gently in the light morning breeze, deceptively inviting. There was no going back, not that way.

As they left both stable and field behind, they followed the dirt road for a time, their boots squelching in the mud, each footstep mingling with the walkers' tracks, until silently, they turned from it and disappeared into the trees, ghosts in the gray dawn.

…

Dodging low-hanging branches with leaves still dripping from the night's heavy rain, Beth followed Daryl's lead.

As they moved further into the forest, he stopped here and there, kneeling before her to show her the trail a rabbit had taken through the undergrowth, the place a doe had bedded down during the storm. She observed carefully as Daryl, his voice quiet and patient, pointed out each spot. The traces of the creatures in the leaves, the paths they had worn on the forest floor, the signs they had left behind, all had begun to take shape. _It's like learning to read,_ she marveled. Maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to _see_.

A wood thrush warbled overheard, singing a lilting song to the pale sunrise. Beth halted for a moment, her eyes drawn upward to where its speckled little form flitted between the branches. Sunlight peeked through the trees beyond; a patch of blue shone through the gray. As much as she longed for a roof over her head, and a place she didn't have to leave behind, she had begun to find a measure of comfort in these seemingly endless woods. She thought she could see what her father had meant, about how peaceful it could be, even now, after everything. _At least there are still creatures living in these woods,_ she assured herself. Some days it seemed that the rest of the world belonged to the dead.

As the morning progressed, they found fresh deer tracks and followed the delicate prints deeper into the woods. Beth tried to concentrate solely on reading the signs before her, but now and then her mind wandered back to the stable. _Another place to leave behind, another place to pretend we've never seen._

And yet, she couldn't help but think of those horses, and of the person who had loved them and let them go. She hoped with all her heart they were still out there somewhere, running wild and free.

…

* * *

 **A/N** : This chapter contains a little homage to George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire_. Hint: to a SanSan fan it will be very obvious. ;)

A note on the little bird at the end, which is considered by some to be the most beautiful of all North American songbirds. Of the wood thrush, Henry David Thoreau wrote _: "Whenever a man hears it he is young, and Nature is in her spring; wherever he hears it, it is a new world and a free country, and the gates of Heaven are not shut against him."_

* * *

 ******IMPORTANT REMINDER******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you**! :)


	4. Hunt Thee Down

_"There's gonna come a day_  
 _When you'll feel better_  
 _You'll rise up free and easy on that day_  
 _And float from branch to branch_  
 _Lighter than the air_  
 _Just when that day is coming_  
 _Who can say, who can say…"_  
-The Mountain Goats, 'Up the Wolves'

…

In the dappled sunlight of a small clearing, Beth squinted down the length of the crossbow.

Shadows shimmered and danced across the forest floor; the delicate, filtered light caught her eye, distracting her for a moment. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves overhead and a lock of hair escaped her ponytail, blowing across her face, momentarily obscuring her vision. She lowered the hefty weapon with a sigh, pushed the strand from her eyes, and tried to regain her concentration.

For today's target practice, Daryl had strung the can lids from a low-hanging branch of a spreading maple, just the height of a walker—or a person. The line of lids clinked together in the breeze, gently taunting her.

Beth was aware of Daryl standing just behind her—close, but not touching, giving her the space she needed to adjust her arms, her stance, her focus. She adjusted her position now, shifting her right foot forward, and the left so that it was angled slightly outward.

She held the bow as steady as she could, and tried to gauge if she should aim a bit higher or lower to compensate for the movement of her targets. She pulled the trigger then, hoping for the best. The bolt loosed, it flew wide, and she cringed inwardly as she heard it land with a crashing _thwunk_ into the bushes. "Dang it."

Daryl reached across her for the bow. "Lighten up a bit," he told her, as he pulled the bowstring taut again. "Remember, go gentle, and go slow."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon," she said, her tone dripping with perhaps more sarcasm than she'd intended.

"Here," he offered. Suddenly he was close behind her, his forearm coming around her, his finger resting lightly overtop her own. He pressed the trigger along with her, letting her feel the gradual release of pressure. "That's it," he rasped, close to her ear.

"I _know_ ," she said impatiently. She felt frustrated, and more than a little flustered. Though whether at herself or at her instructor, she was no longer certain. _I've had this part down for weeks now. What the hell's wrong with me today?_

Daryl stepped back from her, spreading his hands in front of him, a slight smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "Let's see it then. Seein' as you're the expert 'round these parts."

Beth just glared at him over her shoulder. He was teasing, of course. Another person might have withered beneath Daryl Dixon's sarcasm, but she stood her ground. She knew she probably deserved it today, but she was more than used to it by now and was not intimidated in the slightest.

For Daryl, shooting that crossbow was as natural as breathing, but for Beth, who had only previously shot handguns, pistols, and the odd rifle, it had taken some getting used to. Daryl had explained to her that the hardest part was learning not to 'jerk' the trigger. That meant aiming and pulling as one smooth, blended action, without thinking too hard about either movement. It was not as easy as it sounded. Shortly after the night they'd spent at the stable, she had gone a number of frustrating sessions without ever coming close to hitting the makeshift target, an old hubcap that Daryl had mounted on the side of a tree.

It wasn't the same as firing a gun, and it certainly wasn't anything like playing the guitar or piano. Not only did the very act of shooting the bow require more concentration than she'd expected, but she'd quickly learned that its draw-weight was such that she couldn't even reload it on her own. No matter how strong her arms had become—from her life on the farm, from carrying Judith, and now, from these long weeks on the run—she knew she'd never be able to dead-lift that kind of weight. If they had a hand-crank for it, Daryl had told her, then maybe, but he'd never needed one himself. It had occurred to Beth, during one of those early lessons, that perhaps Daryl had never taught anyone to shoot his crossbow, before. Even through the frustration, the thought had made her smile.

When she would become discouraged with her progress—or lack thereof—to the point of threatening to throw the damn bow in the bushes, Daryl would push her through it, gently teasing, adding levity to the moment. Sometimes, he would reach out, without a word, and Beth would hand him back his bow, and he would proceed to demonstrate the technique for her.

At those times, Beth would concentrate as hard as she could, trying to figure out just how the heck the man managed to hit the target with such precision. But lately, she had found herself distracted by the tilt of his head, or the way his shoulders hunched just so, or by the focused intensity of his blue-grey eyes as he squinted down the length of his weapon.

In such moments, without even breaking his aim, Daryl would jokingly remind her, "What did I say, Greene? Watch my fingers, not my face."

With Daryl's encouragement and her own stubbornness, she had pushed through those early challenges and soon both her aim and handling of the trigger began to improve. Over the last weeks, she had progressed to the point where, within a certain range at least, she could easily hit stationary targets. Today's lesson, she knew, was a sort of challenge set for her by her instructor, and she had every intention of meeting it.

He was standing back again, scratching his chin stubble while observing her—a habit of his, she had noticed—as he waited for her make her next move. He'd told her today's goal was just to knock one of the can lids, but Beth was determined to shoot a bolt clean through one. At this range, she ought to be able to do it. "Just you watch," she told him, "I'm gonna get it this time."

But when her second shot flew wide as well, Beth nearly stamped her foot in frustration. _Get a grip of yourself, Greene_ , she thought, hoping that Daryl could not see her face reddening. _If you can't even hit a damn lid off a can, how're you ever gonna get a walker comin' right at you?_

She wouldn't miss again.

Beth drew in a deep breath to calm herself, to quiet her mind. When Daryl handed her the bow, drawn and reloaded, she was ready this time. She aimed, anticipating the subtle movement of her target, but not over-compensating. She squeezed the trigger smoothly, releasing the arrow. With a swift _woosh_ it sent the can lid spinning and landed with a thump into the trunk of the tree just behind. "Dang," she said. "Nearly got it." She'd hoped to knock it down or pierce it completely.

Daryl stood behind her, clapping his hands together. "You see mistakes, Greene. I see improvement."

She could not help but smile at that. "I'm gonna give it another go."

"Alright," he said, taking the bow from her once more. He stepped into the stirrup and cocked the weapon, his arms straining with the heft of the draw-weight. "You ain't got but one left," he said, handing it back to her. "Best make it count."

"I will."

She kept her word. Her final squeeze of the trigger sent the arrow flying with what she fancied was fiercesome precision—or more likely beginner's luck, if she was being realistic—into the target. When they ran together to find the can lid where it had fallen upon the floor of the clearing, they could see that crossbow bolt had pierced clean through it, not quite in the middle, but damn close.

"Hell yeah, Greene! Told ya it was easy." Daryl raised his hand and she brought hers up to meet it. The force of his high-five sent a jolt straight through her. She didn't mind, though. Her instructor was pleased, and she was happy—today, she hadn't failed him.

"You wanna end it here, or you gonna shoot another round?" he asked.

"I'm thinkin'," she said. "Ask me again when you get back."

Daryl nodded to her, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile. "Yes, ma'am," he said, as if tipping an invisible hat, and he strode off into the bushes. If she hadn't known better she'd have thought the man was whistling to himself.

Beth watched after him as he disappeared into the underbrush, and had to smile. He had gone to fetch the bolts that had flown wide of the targets; as always, they could hardly afford to waste even one, especially not just for a practice session. He wouldn't be long, she knew.

All the same, as she stood there beneath the canopy of the trees, with the pack on the ground beside her and the bow propped heavily against her leg, Beth grew restless. The day was especially beautiful—crisp, clear, and sunny—and she felt oddly impatient, like they should be making the most of it.

In the last few weeks, the weather had cooled steadily, gradually, until one day she could no longer say it was midsummer. She had no way of knowing the precise date, of course, for such measurements of time meant little these days. And yet, she could scarcely believe how the season had changed around them. And changed it had—from the longer, cooler nights, the subtle, yet perceptible shift in the sunlight, and even the smells in the air, she knew it must now be closing in on fall.

In the days before the outbreak, Beth had observed the turning of each year by the steady rhythm of life on the farm, by the growing seasons, and by the lives of the animals, their births and inevitable deaths. At the prison, she had marked time in her diary, had kept account of its passage by Judith's development, and on that calendar she'd tracked each day that went by without losing a member of their adopted family.

But out here in these woods, time passed strangely. Some days it seemed that they had been on the run for years, other times it felt like mere days since they had fled, mere days since they had last seen their loved ones alive at the prison. Out here, it was the waxing and waning of the moon—and her answering monthly bleeding—that remained, for Beth, the most constant and reliable, albeit highly inconvenient, reminder of the passage of time.

Beneath branches swaying gently in the breeze, Beth breathed in deeply. The faint scent of dried moss, acorns, pine needles and decaying leaves filled her lungs and she thought she might burst with the simple feeling of being alive. The weather might have grown more pleasant, more bearable, but the last few weeks had not been easy. They had been living rougher than ever, sticking to the cover of the forest, braving thunderstorms and the heat of the sun alike with neither tent nor tarp at their disposal, dodging herds of walkers and bringing down the stragglers they encountered as they went. But it had been a few days now since they had seen a single walker at all, and Beth wanted to savor every moment, for surely their strange luck would not last much longer.

Just as she was contemplating going after him, she heard a rustle in the bushes and Daryl emerged a few seconds later, clutching the retrieved crossbow bolts in his fist. He smiled as he caught her eye and his quick stride ate up the distance between them within seconds so he was at her side once again.

"Took you long enough," she teased.

"Hey, I ain't the one who missed all those shots," he taunted back. "You decide yet?"

"Yep." With a grin, Beth tossed him back his bow; he caught it easily with one hand. And then, without warning, she turned on the spot and sprinted toward the edge of the clearing.

"Hold up, Greene," Daryl called after her. Briefly, Beth glanced back to see him motioning to the string of cans he was attempting to untangle from the branch. "We ain't done here!"

"It's like you always say," she shouted over her shoulder. "'Life ain't fair, best get used to it.'"

And so she ran. She ran into the forest and darted between the tall, thin pines, under the broad, spreading arms of oaks, beneath curtains of hanging moss. She dashed through the undergrowth, through thorny bushes that scratched at her legs through her ripped jeans. She flitted between the slim trunks of young maple and birch, their slender branches catching on her hair as she passed. She ran through patches of ferns and leapt over fallen logs overgrown with moss, all the while careful to dodge the thick vines that hung from low branches.

Beth ran, and as she ran, she laughed.

It was almost like the night of the moonshine. The night she had first felt the heat of the fire they had started together, a great conflagration surging through her entire being. That night, despite the proximity of death, she'd felt a sense of defiance at what they had done, and had reveled in their recklessness. She knew it was mostly the strong drink that had made her so bold, so fearless. And yet, that did not explain the strange hilarity that had come upon her today, when she was as sober as they come.

It was a game they had been playing for about a week now: Daryl would scout the area for walkers beforehand, just as he did before a crossbow lesson, and would generally tell her which direction to start running. It was hardly a difficult activity for him—he would usually find her within minutes—and so she felt a playful sense of rebellion at having gained herself an extra moment's lead.

As Beth ran, she imagined herself bounding and leaping, as swift as any deer they had tracked. Her legs, naturally long and shapely and strong from riding horses her whole life, had grown even more so in these last weeks, and as she ran she felt the strength in her slender thighs and calves with every stride. She had never felt so fleet of foot, so strong, so alive.

It was only as she slipped, briefly, upon the pine needles on the forest floor that she remembered that the soles of her cowboy boots had worn down so smooth as to become, at times, dangerous. _New boots_ , she thought, as she righted herself, and continued running. Mentally, she added those to the checklist of things to ask Daryl to help her find, though lately she was loathe to ask him for anything. For when she did, she'd noticed that he became dogged in his search, relentless—he would not rest until he had found whatever she had requested, even the simplest item, with grim purpose and determination.

With a flush she remembered how, a few weeks prior, her bleeding had come upon her again. She had vacillated between asking for Daryl's help and just resigning herself to using the cleanest of the bandages they'd scavenged from the stable. At least it would be better than the first time it had happened, mere days after the prison. She'd had to cut strips of cloth from her own clothing, and, well, it was a time best left unremembered. This time, after a day or two of using the bandages, she'd once again found it difficult enough to keep herself clean, let alone to find the privacy and spare water to cleanse the pieces of cloth, which they might yet need in case of injuries. And so, she had surrendered to her need, and asked him, her voice uncharacteristically shy, her eyes averted. She did not know which of them had turned redder, when she'd spoken the words aloud.

Beth had thought Daryl might say something, make some sarcastic comment, some disparaging remark. Tease her, even. But, without a word, he had changed direction, and within a few hours had brought her to the edge of the forest, to a country road. Following alongside it for a time, while keeping to the cover of the trees, they had finally come to a small, long-abandoned gas station.

After making the usual check for lurking walkers, Daryl had stood sentinel at the door of the station's convenience store as Beth had stepped gingerly through the broken glass, the strewn packages and wrappers on the floor, to find, upon the shelves therein, the small purple package containing what she'd needed. He'd given her some time, some space and privacy to take proper care of herself. There was only one box left, and she had stuffed it into the backpack, knowing she would have to make it last. As she had emerged from the store, the look in Daryl's eyes conveyed a message that brooked no argument: _You should have told me sooner._

Afterward, they had returned once more to the cover of the forest and had spoken no more about it. That day, Beth had come to understand that her companion would go to great lengths to find what she wanted, what she _needed._ All she had to do was speak the word. She'd felt guilty, almost, at the realization. But then she had rebuked herself, remembering: if he had not helped her that day all those weeks ago to find the moonshine, if she had not _told_ him she'd needed that drink, where might they be now?

She was breathing hard and fast now, and she felt herself slowing down. Nonetheless, she pushed just a bit further toward the shade of a spreading oak. Here the undergrowth grew dense, and she felt as though the forest were closing in around her. There was still no sign of her companion. She thought, with a sudden thrill, that perhaps she had, for once, outrun him. But no, this was Daryl Dixon, and she knew it would take more than a little head-start to beat him at his own game. Breathless, she stifled a giggle, wondering if, like one of Otis' hunting hounds—or perhaps some far wilder beast—he would sniff her out.

Beth heard a rustling then, and quickly moved to hide behind the trunk of the oak, willing herself to remain as still and silent as a bedded doe. Without warning, from behind her, a hand clapped over her mouth and an arm came circling around her chest. She bit down, harder maybe than she'd intended, and she tasted blood. There was an intake of breath close to her ear, but, if anything, the arm around her only tightened, held her closer. She kicked backward, aiming for a knee or groin, just as he'd taught her, but she wasn't quite fast enough, and her captor dodged the heel of her boot with ease. In doing so, however, his arm released her for a moment as he jumped aside, and she, with her knife now in hand, managed to run a few more steps before strong hands caught her again, iron-firm shackles upon her wrist.

Entrapping her from behind, he now spun her around to face him. She felt bark digging into her back, and a warm, callused grip pinning her wrists above her head as she was thrust against the tree behind her.

"Nearly got away this time, Greene," he rasped. "Gettin' quick, like a damn deer. Never knew a whitetail fight so dirty, though."

Unflinching under the man's stormy gaze, her breath came back to her in heaving gasps. She could see he was breathing near as heavily as she and a momentary sense of triumph rose within her—he might've caught her, fast and hard, but she knew she had given him a good chase, and had put up quite the fight. "One of these days," she said, grinning up at him, "I'll shake you for good."

Daryl just grunted. Releasing her right wrist, he kept hold of her by the other. He lifted his finger to his mouth and slowly, deliberately sucked the red droplet welling from where she'd bitten him. As he did, he watched her closely. "Gonna have to bite harder next time."

Still pinned against the tree, locked in his grip and his gaze, Beth could feel the sharp edges of the bark pressing against her spine, against the small bones of her wrist. Her knife-hand was free, and she could have escaped him then, could have twisted away from his grasp.

She could have, but she didn't.

Under the roughness of his hand, the charms on her bracelets dug painfully into her flesh, into the thin scar concealed there below. Daryl's face was close to hers; so close she could feel his hot, ragged breath upon her neck. Beth felt an answering heat of her own, spreading from her belly and up to her chest, shoulders…and to other places, lower down.

Beneath his hand, beneath the charms, beneath the scar, she felt the surging pulse of her own blood, fierce and strong. _How could I have ever thought I didn't want to live?"_

Perhaps sensing some invisible bridge between them that must not be crossed, lest they slip and disappear into perilous waters below, Daryl released her.

He stepped back, just slightly, lowering his hands to his sides and his gaze to the ground at their feet. Despite the sudden space between them, Beth still felt the odd thrill coursing through her body, and in that moment she had mind to ask him, boldly, if he wanted to play again.

They heard it at the same time.

A sound such as would haunt the darkest of dreams reverberated through the trees. It wasn't the bellow of a rutting stag for its mate. Nor was it the unearthly shriek of a rabbit torn apart by a fox or coyote. No, this scream was human. And soon, it was followed by another.

Instantly, they were both alert: Beth, raising her knife once more, Daryl, un-slinging the crossbow from his shoulders, their game forgotten.

"It's comin' from that a way," Daryl said, pointing. "East, I'd reckon."

Beth didn't know how he could be so damn sure—the way the eerie cries echoed through the forest around them, they could have originated anywhere.

"We should go to them," she said. She knew what would likely await them, but she was determined. When Daryl gave her an incredulous look, she raised a hand to stop him from speaking in protest. "I know what you're thinkin'. Most likely, we'll be too late. But we have to try. It could be—" She glanced down at the ground for a moment, struggling to speak the words out loud: _It could be Maggie, it could be Glenn. It could be one of us. But even if it isn't, we still gotta try._ "Maybe we could _do_ somethin'." She looked Daryl in the eyes then, searching those feral slants for some kind of recognition, some kind of acknowledgement of shared purpose.

Daryl gazed back at her for a long moment, and then looked in the direction of the screams, chewing the side of his cheek. She knew he was mulling it over in his mind. Suddenly, he stooped and picked up the backpack where he'd dropped it upon the ground. Shouldering the pack, he started forward.

Beth quickly caught up to him. "We goin', then?"

"Yeah." She felt his hand come up then, to rest upon her back, just for the briefest of moments. "But you stay close, you hear?"

Beth nodded up at him, serious, the playfulness of just moments before gone. "I will."

…

They moved swiftly and steadily, jogging rather than running, cautious and careful. After a time, the high-pitched screams had ceased. Fainter shouts still echoed around them.

With every step the uncertainty and unease in Beth's gut tightened; she knew not what might lie ahead and was no longer certain she wanted to find out. She felt that they were already most likely far too late, but she wouldn't stop, not when they were so close.

The foliage and terrain around them shifted, the broadleaf giving way to pine and cedar, the spaces between the trees widening. That was when they came across the first signs of a herd. Daryl spotted the tell-tale marks first, and, as always, he was swift to point out the tracks of the living amongst them.

"Things went bad here," he said, pointing at a trampled section of underbrush. "But something ain't right. See, there's three different sets of tracks, just before."

" _Three_ herds?" Beth's heart nearly stopped at the thought.

"Nah, just the one, but it's odd … two trails meet up here, right where the walkers come in. The tracks all come together here, and go on that way."

Beth squinted hard to where he was pointing, and shook her head in dismay. She still found it hard to decipher at times. A footprint was a footprint, and she couldn't always tell if a lone track belonged to a walker or a living person. Even amongst these fresh tracks she still couldn't tell when things had started to 'go south', as Daryl often put it. That was, until she saw the blood. Even Beth had learned to tell the difference between walker-blood and that of the living. _He's always tellin' me I need to learn how to follow a blood trail._ A chill ran through her.

Perhaps sensing her sudden apprehension, Daryl spoke gently. "Sure you wanna do this?"

Beth wasn't sure, not of what lay ahead. But she was sure of the man before her, sure of the protectiveness and concern in his eyes, so she nodded.

"Alright," he nodded back. "Come on."

They followed the tracks and the fresh, red blood that spotted the ground and dotted the ferns and the pine needles for an indeterminable amount of time. At some point they heard the familiar sounds, the hissing growls and groans reaching their ears just as the breeze of the day carried the stomach-churning stench of decaying flesh toward them.

It was there, where the spaces between the trees widened further and the undergrowth thinned, that they found themselves at the edge of a row of tall pines, gazing across a wide clearing upon a scene of carnage.

Beth moved instinctively behind Daryl, just as he placed himself in front of her, as if to shield her from the grisly sight before them. Nonetheless, she peeked around his shoulder and she could see what lay there, beyond the edge of the wood. It was like something out of a movie, a scene of a battlefield. Walkers crouched upon the ground, feeding on the bloody remains of the fallen. A camp, perhaps, she considered, though she didn't see any tents here, nor any sign of a fire.

Just as she began to accept that they had indeed arrived too late, that there was no one left at all, she spotted movement in the opposite corner of the clearing and heard a ferocious shout. She looked over and saw a man, gray-bearded and of large stature, fighting his way through a small sea of walkers, as though making a last, final stand. The day's sunlight yet shone down upon the horror scene, revealing the quick flash of a knife in his hand. In his other hand he held an old rifle which he wielded as a club. He was standing his ground, roaring something that might have been a name, as the walkers he'd been fighting surrounded him.

Beth took a step forward, ready to rush in, but Daryl reached out and grabbed her arm. "Wait!" he growled.

"We can't just stand here!" she nearly shouted.

An instant later, they had no choice—the walkers had heard them, seen them, smelled them. Raising gore-smeared faces from their victim's bodies, they began to stumble toward where they stood. Beth looked up to Daryl's grim visage, and with a single nod from him, they moved out from the cover of the trees and into the wider clearing.

At first the walkers came stumbling over, one by one, and were easily taken down. And yet, just as she thought they had dealt with the last one, from the corner of her eye she could see yet more crashing through the trees, perhaps attracted by the noise. And then, at their very feet, some of the half-eaten fallen began to stand, hungry ghosts rising from the forest floor.

She had meant to stay close, she really had. But suddenly, everything was chaos and she was surrounded by a sea of walkers, a red tide surging between her and her companion. One moment Daryl was beside her, fighting three of them, the next, he had disappeared from her sight.

Beth could only think of the moment then, as they came at her. One stumbled on a fallen branch and collapsed to the ground at her feet. She tried crushing its head under her boot like she'd seen Daryl do so many times. It took her a moment, what with its arms flailing and grabbing at her legs, but she did it, though she nearly slipped, the worn sole of her boot now slick with the thick, black blood.

As another approached, reaching its arms toward her, she side-stepped it and sunk her knife into its temple. She had expected the flesh to fall from its skull in clumps, and thus it took her a moment longer than she'd counted on to wrench the knife from its head. It was a fresh one, she realized in horror. In that time, another had crept up from behind, its fingers reaching, its snarling close, far too close to her ear. She shrieked and kicked out behind her, and this time she heard the sickening crunch as her boot connected with its leg, and the thing fell to the ground. She had the chance she needed, and once more she stomped on its head while it was down, finishing it quickly as yet more were approaching.

It had been a longer trek than she'd expected to this place, and she was already tired from both their game and her lesson earlier on. And so, even as Beth slashed ferociously at another incoming walker, there was a terrifying moment when she felt fatigue taking over, when she thought that she might not be able to keep going, not long enough to make it back to his side. _Not yet,_ she pleaded to the trees, to the sky. _Please, not like this. Time, we need more time._

As if in answer, the tide of walkers parted, just briefly, and she could once again see Daryl where he stood, fighting off two or three on his own. _Fightin' to get back to me._ He was just a few paces over. _It's my fault he's here in the first place._ Deep within herself, Beth found a reserve of strength as-yet untapped. _Maggie wouldn't quit, not if it was Glenn over there, surrounded._ She thought of all that Daryl had taught her these last weeks. _I won't leave you. I won't fail you._

She shoved through the walkers to get to him, stabbing one and sending another stumbling to the ground. She kicked out with her boot, connected with a rotten leg, and yet another fell to the forest floor. "Daryl!" she cried out to him, as a freshly-dead man came looming up behind him. Daryl turned quickly, and kicked it in the chest—it fell back, immediately trampled by others. She reached his side as he slammed the base of his crossbow into a walker's skull, and thrust his knife into another. He stood there for a second, catching his breath. "Told you I would stay close," she said, flashing him a grin. Daryl nodded solemnly, a salute to a fellow comrade-in-arms. She felt his hand upon her shoulder, just briefly, before they resumed fighting once more.

They held their ground then, standing back-to-back in the center of the clearing as the last remnants of the herd closed in around them. Daryl took one down with a bolt from his bow, but had no chance to load it again, and so they both resorted to close combat, wielding their knives in turns, taking the walkers out, one by one, each guarding the other's back.

When it was finally finished, they stood there, panting like a pair of wild things, looking around the clearing. Now-dead walkers lay scattered everywhere, rotting corpses upon a bloody field. _Red,_ she thought, _it's all red._ She could no longer make out any bodies, just blood, and other…things. But she knew there had been people here, not so long ago. They had followed that trail after all, and…

The image of sweet little Luke's shoe, lying on the ground amidst the blood and gore near those railroad tracks swirled into her mind. Suddenly, her stomach churned, and she doubled over, feeling as though she might throw up. She knew not whether she stumbled from the memory or the exhaustion, but Daryl was there—she felt the familiar grip on her arm, iron-strong, her anchor in the dizzying, red sea.

She leaned into him then, taking a moment to breathe in and out, and in and out again. Once she had steadied herself, once she had regained her presence of mind, the reason they had come to this place came flooding back to her. "Where is he?" she asked in desperation. "Did you see where he went down?"

"Over there," Daryl said, pointing toward the edge of the trees.

Together, they made their way across the sad remnants of these strangers' lives to the place where they had last seen him. Daryl still held her gently by the arm, as though afraid she would fall over any instant and be swallowed up by the ocean of blood beneath their feet.

They approached the spot cautiously, and they almost didn't see him there where he lay upon the floor of the clearing, against the base of a great red cedar, surrounded by dead walkers. For he had taken down many with him, she could see that plainly.

Now that she was close, she saw that the large man was dressed in camouflage hunting gear, from head to toe. _No wonder we almost missed him,_ she thought. He looked to be in his late fifties or sixties perhaps. It was hard to tell, beneath his gray beard and hair tinged with white. It was hard to tell, beneath all the blood. He was of course badly wounded, his arms especially mangled and torn, as though he'd been defending himself. Or someone else.

So grievous did that man's injuries seem that, for a moment, Beth wasn't sure if he was even still alive.

"He's bit," Daryl said. It sounded like an apology.

"I know." It was as she had feared; they were too late.

There was a rustling in the trees overhead and she glanced upward. Carrion birds had gathered in the branches above: buzzards and crows, screeching and cawing impatiently, their cacophony a bold mockery of the scene below. Suddenly, Beth felt a rush of defiance. _Maybe he's dyin',_ she thought, _but he's not dead yet. There's gotta be somethin' we can do._

Almost as if in answer, the man coughed, trying to speak.

"Water," she told Daryl, "he needs water." When he just looked at her, Beth asked him again. _"Please."_

Daryl reached into their pack and brought forth one of their water bottles, handing it to her silently. She held the back of the man's head as she tipped the bottle to his lips. He seemed to be trying to sip, and yet most of the water trickled down the sides of his mouth, and he coughed again.

"Who…you?" The man finally managed, his voice a hoarse croak.

"We heard the…sounds," Beth said. "Came to help…but…" she trailed off, lamely.

The man continued as though he hadn't heard her. "All…gone. Come out of nowhere, they did. Got us good…bastards." He paused, a spasm coming over him. "I…lead…supposed to…keep safe." He grimaced in pain. "Took her…from me. I couldn't—"

"Shh," she said, attempting to soothe his obvious distress. "We all lost folk," she told him gently. "We all lost someone to the walkers."

"Walkers?" The man wheezed as he turned his face to her. "No, not…not the dead…"

"What do you mean, old man?" Daryl spoke then, and his voice had an edge to it.

And then their eyes were drawn at once to where the man's least-mangled hand clutched at his side. Beth had thought he was holding a bite-wound, but when Daryl moved his hand aside, they saw it there, the place where his jacket had been sliced clean through.

"That ain't no walker bite," Daryl said. He looked across at Beth, then, and the realization hung unspoken between them: it was not just a herd that had attacked this man and his people today. The man had been stabbed in cold blood. Suddenly, the three sets of tracks began to make sense. Daryl turned to the fellow then, and his face was thunder. "The men who did this, tell me where to—"

"They ain't _men_ ," the old hunter nearly spat the word. Suddenly, his eyes widened, bright with pain, or perhaps it was the fever taking hold, and he spoke to Daryl directly. "You," he said, attempting to raise a finger. "Get…away. Keep…your woman…close. Pretty…little …they'll take her… they will."

Another choking spasm came over the man, then. He was clearly struggling for breath. "Shh," Beth said as soothingly as she could. "Don't speak, shhh."

What had happened here? she wondered. Had the hunter and his group been set upon by a band of men only to be attacked, shortly thereafter by a herd? Or—and the thought chilled her, for it reminded her too much of what had happened at the prison—had this been some kind of ambush? And, who was _she_ , the one whose loss he spoke of with such anguish? His wife? His daughter? Beth looked down at the man again, and could see a shadow darkening his eyes. He had little time left; she might never know.

He drew another ragged breath and looked back and forth between Beth and Daryl, his eyes wild, desperate. "Don't—don't let me…turn. She wouldn't—she wouldn't want—" and then he faltered, choking on his words.

"Stand back," Daryl spoke to her under his breath. "I got this." He reached for his knife.

But the old hunter was still lucid enough to know what was happening to him, and even though his breath was a harsh rattle in his chest, even though he was coughing up bright, red blood, he managed to speak once more. "Use…mine," he gasped, and his hand moved with great effort to the hunting knife that lay on the ground near his side.

Daryl nodded at the older man's request and reached across him. As he lifted the weapon from the blood-stained ground, even Beth marveled at its beauty, for the sharp blade was patterned in tiny swirls, dark plumes of smoke against the steel, and its hilt was of carven antler inlaid with silver.

With the knife firmly in his grip, Daryl moved toward the dying hunter.

"Wait," Beth said, putting her hand out to stop him.

"Man's in pain. No need to drag this out." Daryl's voice was low so only she could hear him. "You know it ain't safe here."

But she knew what she had to do. She moved in close, and gently took the hunter's large, bloodied hand—the hand of a once-strong man—in her own. Daryl moved toward her protectively, but she reassured him. "It's ok. I—I need to do this." She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes: _Let me do this_.

No one had been there to hold her father's hand as he had drawn his final breath. She wasn't going to let his man, stranger though he might be, die alone. She wouldn't let him be put down, like he was an animal. Or worse, like he was already a walker. Not while he was still living, not while he was still a _person_. They may have been too late to save him, but this…this she could still do.

Beth glanced at Daryl again. He regarded her gravely, but made no further move to stop her. Without wasting another moment, she drew a deep breath and began to sing.

 _You'll walk unscathed through musket fire,_  
 _No ploughman's blade will cut thee down,_  
 _No cutlass wound will mark thy face_  
 _And you will be my ain true love,_  
 _And you will be my ain true love._

 _And as you walk through death's dark veil,_  
 _The cannon's thunder can't prevail,_  
 _And those who hunt thee down will fail,_  
 _And you will be my ain true love,_  
 _And you will be my ain true love._

 _Asleep inside the cannon's mouth,_  
 _The captain cries, "Here comes the rout,"_  
 _They'll seek to find me north and south,_  
 _I've gone to find my ain true love._

 _The field is cut and bleeds to red._  
 _The cannon balls fly round my head,_  
 _The infirmary man may count me dead,_  
 _When I've gone to find my ain true love,_  
 _I've gone to find my ain true love._

The tune was slow and haunting, and by the time she finished the final verse, the man's hand was cold. The rise and fall of his chest had ceased, and his eyes had grown sightless and dim. Beth closed his eyelids gently, and as she leaned over him, a wetness spilled onto his face. It took her a moment to realize the tears were her own.

"Now," she said, without looking at Daryl, her voice nearly a whisper. "Do it now."

The knife was sharp; it was over quickly. The man wouldn't turn.

 _We didn't ask his name,_ Beth realized, too late. She thought of the one he had spoken of as he died. _Let him find her,_ she prayed, to God or whomever might be listening. _Let him find her there._ She didn't know where 'there' was—heaven, perhaps, or something else entirely, but she had to believe that the souls of the dead, once fled, gathered _somewhere,_ and that they would see each other there again, someday. She had to believe it, because she could not accept the alternative, that an eternity of walking the earth—until someone finally put you down—was the only afterlife that awaited them now.

For some time they remained there, crouched together beside the dead man, as though each were waiting for the other to make the first move, to signal that it was long past time to leave. Rather they knelt together in quiet contemplation, mourning the stranger they had failed to save. Mourning so much more.

Finally, Daryl stood, and began to wipe the elegant weapon's blade with a rag, as if to take it with him.

Beth looked up at him. "What're you doin'?"

"What, this?" He fingered the richly decorated hilt. "Dead man's got no use for a huntin' knife."

Beth knew he was right, and yet… "It meant somethin' to him," she said softly.

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "Waste of a damn good weapon," he grumbled. Even so, he made no further protest—rather, he bent down, folded the man's ruined arms across his chest and placed the ornate knife there, beneath his now-cold hands.

They had nothing to cover him with, and neither the time nor tools to bury him. So they left him there, at the base of the tree where he'd fallen. After they had lain the man's rifle next to him, they stood over him for a moment longer, in silence.

"C'mon," Daryl said finally, his voice quiet, his hand gentle upon her back as he urged her forward.

As they picked their way toward the edge of the clearing, Beth knew she shouldn't look back. And yet, for a moment she glanced behind her to where they'd left the old hunter beneath the tree. The afternoon sun streamed through the rows of the tall pines and the knife's blade gleamed brightly in the hands of the dead man.

Beth's eyes began to water once more, and she turned away. Behind her, she heard the rustle of wings, and the harsh, cackling laughter of the crows as they descended to feast upon that crimson field.

She did not look back again.

…

They did not speak for a long time, but made their way silently through the forest. Beth's heart was a heavy stone in her chest and she was tired, so tired. Even so, she did not complain—she knew Daryl was trying to put as much distance between them and that place as possible before nightfall.

The afternoon had faded into early evening when they found it. One minute there was nothing but the usual trees and underbrush ahead, and the next it was there, looming above them. A deer stand, the tall, wooden structure used by hunters to gain the advantage of height and stealth upon their prey.

Beth's spirits lifted the moment she saw the wooden tower. Now was the time of day they would usually be searching for some small, secluded hollow to set up camp, and drained as she was, she knew she had little strength left even for that, tonight. Here was a place they could rest, even just for a short while, high above the forest floor, high above the blood and death.

Daryl told her to wait, that he'd check it out first, that there could be anything up there. "Stay put, you hear? Wait 'til I give the go-ahead."

Beth nodded, not minding his protectiveness tonight. Not after what they'd just been through. He left the pack with her. She waited, watching from below as he climbed the rickety ladder, his crossbow slung over his back, his knife between his teeth—so he'd have it out and ready, in case there was something waiting for him up at the top, she knew. He reached the platform, swung his leg, and clambered up. The wing-tips on his vest disappeared out of her sight.

A second passed, and then another, and then he was there again, looking down, calling for her to come on up.

Beth quickly strapped the backpack over her shoulders and started her ascent. It was not extremely high, not much higher than the loft in the barn back on the farm. But she made sure not to look down even so—she was dizzy enough as it was.

When she finally reached the top where Daryl was waiting for her, he had extended his hand, and gripped her arm tightly, pulling her up through the small entrance and onto the platform. Maybe she was even more exhausted than she realized, or maybe he was over-eager, but somehow she stumbled and fell hard against him. They both nearly tumbled to the wooden floorboards of the small structure, but Daryl was too quick for that and swiftly regained his balance.

He stepped back a pace, holding her up by her elbows. "Whoa, I got ya," he spoke into her hair, for she had fallen forward upon his chest, her face buried into his sweat-and-blood-stained shirt, her whole body flush against his.

"Oof," she grunted, reddening. The sudden warmth of another living body against hers felt far too comfortable, too inviting, and a strange feeling came over her, a mix of contentment and loneliness. "Sorry," she muttered aloud, perhaps to herself.

Daryl said not a word, but just looked at her intently. Whether it was concern, or something else that darkened his features, she could not say.

It was only as Beth righted herself and stepped away that she wondered if she would have rather remained there, leaning against him, all evening.

Slowly, she became aware of the rest of her surroundings as she glanced around the inside of the wooden structure. At a quick, initial glance, it seemed long-abandoned, like most places these days. The floorboards creaked beneath her boots but felt sturdy enough, for all that they were moldy and damp, as though they had never quite dried out all the way. The reason for the state of the interior became immediately apparent as she glanced up—half the roof had caved in, leaving the stand partially open to the sky. Beth walked across the entirety of the small space in a few strides, and saw that there was nothing much up there except an old, broken stool, some cobwebs, a spider scurrying away into a corner, some carpet squares, and a couple of hunting magazines, so faded and crinkled as to hardly be recognizable.

Beth moved to stand at the edge of the platform, and, leaning against the low wall and railing, she looked out across the forest below. From that vantage she could see for some distance, where the taller trees did not block the view. Looking down, she noticed a small path through the underbrush, the one they had been following when they encountered the place. Worn down by the deer that still passed by the stand, the trail had endured long after whoever had used this place was gone. She thought of the old man in his torn camouflage as he lay dying; she could still feel his hand in hers as the warmth of his life slipped away. _There must've been plenty of hunters out here, back in the day,_ she told herself. And yet, she couldn't help but wonder…

She heard the shuffle of familiar, heavy boots on creaking floorboards then as Daryl came up behind her and leaned against the wooden panels that formed the half-wall, his elbows resting atop the railing. He followed her gaze and looked out across the treetops. For a time, they stood in silence there together, side by side, high above the world.

Up there they were closer to the canopy and Beth imagined she was floating, suspended between earth and sky. She watched as the evening deepened and flocks of birds came to roost in the treetops, while bats emerged in their stead, their slight forms just visible flitting away into the pink and grey of the evening. She caught a glimpse then, out of the corner of her eye, of silent wings flapping between trees—an owl, out hunting.

There were noises coming from ground below as well, and she knew these to be the sounds of the night creatures stirring. Foxes, racoons, coyotes, or even bobcats, most like. Not walkers—by now she'd be a fool not to know the difference.

Beth recalled her first night out on the road, right after her family's farm had been overrun. She'd been so petrified she'd nearly jumped out of her skin at the slightest noise. She'd always remembered that night, the sound of Daryl's voice as he'd spoken to her from the shadows: _"Could be anythin', could be a raccoon a possum…or a walker."_ She'd thought him cold, for teasing her that night of all nights, but she hadn't known him then. In the months that followed, Beth had realized that was just Daryl's way. The man was just naturally terse and blunt. And honest.

But she had quickly learned—and nowadays knew all-too well—that walkers were noisier and clumsier than any wild animal. There was no mistaking their gasping snarls and moans, their stumbling way of crashing through the trees. Even so, she knew, they could still sneak up on you all the same, if you weren't paying attention.

The sun had lowered now behind the trees, leaving behind a faint glow of dusky rose. Daryl was still standing next to her, his elbow against the railing, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The last pale light came through the trees then, caressing his tired, careworn features as he looked out over the forest below them. With a start, Beth realized she was staring at him.

The man hadn't seemed to notice, and so, with some amusement at herself for being so bold, she let herself gaze upon him for a spell longer. His dark, tangled hair, usually plastered to the sides of his face with sweat, had dried in the cool breeze that was now wafting over them. For such a practical man, Daryl's hair had grown long, she noticed now, longer than she'd ever seen it on him, at least. She realized that she liked it better this way, though she had never before presumed to have a preference in the matter. Even now those locks seemed to have turned to dark flame, glowing as they were with an almost reddish hue in the fading sunlight. Beth wondered why she'd never noticed this…never noticed how beautiful this particular feature of his could be. An unruly strand had fallen across his eye, and in that moment she felt the strangest urge to reach out, smooth it away, and—

"What the—?" Daryl's rasp broke through the silence.

For a second Beth was startled, embarrassed that he'd somehow heard her thoughts, somehow read her intent there upon her face. She remained confused for a moment until she looked up and saw it too: a tower of black smoke against the pink and gray of the evening sky, coming from some distance away.

Her breath caught at the sight. "That's not a campfire, is it." It wasn't really a question.

"Nah, way too big," he agreed.

Smoke could only mean one thing: fire. And a fire like that could only mean one thing: people. Beth knew it, and she was certain Daryl knew it, too.

They were both quiet for a while, Daryl chewing the side of his cheek in thought, and glancing over at her every now and then, Beth staring out across the lowering sky, unable to draw her gaze from the dark, billowing plumes.

"It's at least a few miles south of here," Daryl said finally. "Tell you what. We keep an eye on it long as we can tonight. Come first light, we move on."

She nodded her agreement. It seemed the only option now.

Beth knew that Daryl would be thinking it was best to avoid encountering any people at all, especially after what they had seen today. _"They ain't men,"_ the hunter had told them. Beth knew there was a hard truth within those ominous words, knew that Daryl was probably all-too right in being over-cautious.

But it didn't change the fact that her first instinct was to give the benefit of the doubt, to hope that the people behind that fire were decent folk. _After all,_ she thought with a small, inward smile, _sometimes you just gotta burn it down._

…

As night descended upon them, they seated themselves upon the driest section of the floor of the deer stand, beneath the intact section of the roof. Nonetheless, Beth could still see the stars from where she sat leaning against the wall. She fancied that up here, their twinkling seemed clearer, closer. The moon was but a sliver in the sky. _It's waning,_ she noticed. Another night, maybe two, and it would be the dark of the moon.

As of late, the nights had grown cooler and tonight was no exception. Maybe it was the breeze, or maybe it was the memory of what had happened earlier that afternoon. Either way, the evening air raised goosebumps on her arms, and she shivered, feeling a chill deep in her bones.

Beth knew they'd been lucky at the prison. They had bought themselves more time with limited electricity and smaller luxuries like water rigged up for washing, showers, and hot coffee in the mornings. But out here, they had no light but that which emanated from the natural bodies of the sun and moon and stars, no heat but that of their fires. Oh, sometimes they used the flashlights they'd found at the country club, when they had no choice and could chance to spare the batteries. All the same, she thought there was something to be said for a world lit only by fire.

She could scarcely believe it, but she actually found herself missing the little flickering flames of their campfires. Tonight, they did not even have that. It would be too dangerous to build a fire up here, she knew, what with the wooden structure, the tree branches, and the fact that a blaze at this height would surely attract walkers in droves. She remembered, then, the column of smoke only miles away from where they sat now. No, there would be no fire tonight.

Beth shivered again. She thought it was entirely possible that she and Daryl would breathe their last breaths without ever experiencing electricity again. At least, not that kind. There was still lightning, she supposed. That which accompanied the sudden summer storms, strikes of silver that lit the whole sky for surreal moments in time. And heat lighting, flickering strobe-like on nights as dry as bone, when the air was charged heavier than a stone. And then there was the static between two objects in space, the sort of spark that had nothing to do with switches, or generators, or flashes of light from the sky…

They were sitting close, close enough that Daryl's arm, bare as usual, was pressed against hers, warming her in the cool night breeze. And yet she was still cold. Beth wondered what it would be like out here, once winter arrived. Without a roof over one's head, even the mildest of Georgia winters could bite, as she knew all-too well. She'd never forgotten the winter they'd spent on the road, running from house to house, scavenging, more often than not sleeping huddled together in the cars. Early on, before they'd found the cars, they'd slept around campfires. But it was different back then. Rick, Daryl, her father, and T-Dog had kept watch during those long, dark nights.

And once they'd had the vehicles, Beth had usually found herself pressed up in a back seat between Lori, Carl, and Carol, or sometimes her father, huddling against his side for warmth. Maggie and Glenn had already become inseparable by then, and were often nowhere to be found until morning. In retrospect, she envied her sister and brother-in-law in a way, for they'd warmed themselves at a different sort of fire during that long winter, and done so without restraint. She hoped that, wherever they were, they were still sharing each other's warmth on nights like this.

Instinctively, Beth pressed a bit closer to Daryl and hoped it would be enough, for now. Ever since the night they'd spent in the stable, she would stir in the dark, waking briefly to find herself nestled against his side, or with her head resting upon his warm, solid chest. At first she had expected that, eventually, her gruff companion's patience would run out, that he would grow annoyed with such closeness. But that day had not come. Sometimes, she would even wake to feel the weight of his heavily-muscled arm draped over her. Come morning, neither of them would speak of it. For that, she was grateful. She did not know what she would do if he asked her to stop.

While their long silences remained companionable, talk had, in general, become easier between them. Usually by now, sitting around their campfires in the evenings, they would be speaking about the day, about tomorrow, and even, sometimes, about the past. There was one subject that, by chance, Beth had discovered that Daryl spoke of with ease: movies. It was one aspect of life _before_ that he seemed to truly miss, and Beth loved to hear him talk about some of his old favorites. Classics, he called them. Some she had seen, and she could hold her own with him in discussing. But others, she hadn't. She'd felt a strange kind of sorrow to think that in this new world, some stories might be now forever out of reach.

Ever-observant, Daryl seemed to have sensed this, and had begun to describe certain parts to her in more detail, as though telling a tall tale, and Beth fancied she could see the scenes unfolding in her imagination. She'd even started to tell him about some of her favorites, too. It was probably those chats that had made her think of that song today, the one she'd sung to the dying man. It was from a Civil War drama, a real tearjerker she and Maggie used to watch together, back in the days when they could still afford to cry over a pair of doomed lovers on a tv-screen.

Sitting there next to him, leaning against the scratchy plywood wall of the stand, Beth could tell that, tonight, her companion would prefer to remain silent. She told herself that she was happy just to lean against him, to feel the heat emanating from his body. But she was still shivering despite herself. Tentatively, she sidled closer to him, and, with sudden boldness, rested her temple upon his arm. She was shaking in earnest now, but whether with the cold or with nerves she could no longer tell.

Suddenly, Daryl shifted, and for a heartbeat she wondered if she really had gone too far, taken one too many liberties with the man's personal space. It was dark now, and at first she couldn't tell what he was doing. But before she knew it, he had removed his vest and was wrapping it carefully around her shoulders. The heavy leather garment enveloped her upper body completely. It was as though he had wrapped her in his own skin, for it still carried the scent and warmth of his body.

Beth wanted to protest, _what about you?_ But something in the way Daryl had once more so readily seen to her need silenced her. Instead, she pressed even closer to him, leaning her head directly against his shoulder, hoping that maybe, in some small way, she could repay this share of warmth.

Daryl did not flinch at her touch, but he did not move any closer, either. Maybe he thought the shelter of his vest was enough. _It is_ , she thought, _and yet…_ Gingerly, she reached a hand out from under the leather garment. The cool night air chilled her skin again briefly until she carefully wrapped her fingers around his forearm, and drew him closer to her.

As she brought his arm beneath the vest he had only just wrapped around her, she heard the sharp intake of his breath. For many, long moments they both remained still, silent. Then, she felt his hand move, his fingers searching. She had the fleeting idea he might be trying to hold her hand, but it was dark, and perhaps he couldn't find his way. Rather, his hand came to rest, open-palmed, upon her leg, warming her through her jeans, his large thumb moving slow, careful circles against her inner thigh. She let out a small gasp of surprise, and felt his grip tighten, felt him squeeze her there for a moment. It could have been hours though, for all she could tell.

But just as suddenly, he released her from his strong grip, and withdrew his hand. She drew a sharp breath of her own then, this time at the rush of cool air that replaced the burn of his palm against her thigh. In her turn, she gently released his arm, hoping she hadn't made him too uncomfortable.

Instead, she tried to content herself with nestling her head into his shoulder. Resting there against him, she attempted to will herself to sleep. She was beyond exhausted now, and already much warmer, but an easy slumber proved elusive. The images of the day floated before her eyes—the dying hunter, the beautiful knife, and the blood…so much blood…

The man's last words swirled inside her mind, and she pondered what he'd said, about men who would take whatever they wanted… men like the Governor. Was that truly all that was left now, in this new world? She knew what Daryl would say, that the good ones didn't make it. The thought distressed her. She could not believe that only men like that would survive, she could not believe that only the most monstrous would inherit the earth. She could not believe it because it was not true— had not she survived against all odds?

And Daryl…whatever he might think of himself at times, whatever he was—or wasn't—before the turn, he was a good man. A man you could trust with your life. _"We're weak without him,"_ she'd insisted, that time he'd gone away. He hadn't been gone all that long, but it had been long enough. And she'd been angry with him, then. For abandoning them. For abandoning Judy. For abandoning _her_.

But even then, when she'd scarcely known him, she'd never once doubted him. Never once doubted his strength—strength of body, and strength of spirit. In this world, and in all the worlds past, present, and future that Beth still held in her heart, Daryl Dixon was the best of men. Somehow, she would show him.

It was only as she was drifting in and out of sleep, her head nodding against the gloriously warm breadth of his bare shoulder, that another set of words came back to her. _"Keep your woman close."_ Wasn't that what the old hunter had said? She realized, dazedly, that Daryl had not corrected him. Maybe he was just being polite to a delirious, dying man. Or, more likely, he was just being protective, as usual. She found that the possessive term did not disturb her, not as much as it probably should have.

Of course, Beth could take care of herself—at least, better than she used to, these days. All the same, she mused that a man would have to be the biggest fool on this side of the end of the world to mess with Daryl Dixon and his 'woman'.

She hummed softly to herself as the thought claimed her, and carried her off to sleep.

…

Beth woke with the dawn, to the soft cooing of a mourning dove in the tree just beyond the stand.

Somehow, in the night, she and Daryl had both slid down from their positions against the wall to lie prone upon the floorboards themselves. They were pressed up together on their sides, and Beth—still wrapped in the man's leather vest—had curled herself against his back as they slept. With a start, she realized she'd even been holding the fabric of his shirt in her fists, like a child clutching a safety blanket. She must have been tired indeed not to remember that; he must have been truly exhausted not to have minded. Heck, she'd even drooled on him.

She figured she'd let him rest a while longer, here in this safe place that must feel at least a little familiar to him. So, as quietly as possible, she removed herself from Daryl's sleeping form. He stirred briefly, his arm coming up to cover his eyes.

Beth moved as quietly as he'd taught her, and as slowly as possible, so the floorboards would not creak, and sat down on the stool next to the wooden railing. The morning air was cool, and she adjusted the heavy leather vest around her shoulders. She looked out from the deer stand across the dark expanse of the forest and could see that a slight mist had arisen overnight, where the cold air had met the still-warm earth. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, fresh scent of the morning dew. Her stomach rumbled. They'd not eaten since the previous morning, she realized.

For some time she just watched as the sun rose, touching the treetops, burning the mist away into nothingness. To the south, the column of smoke still rose steadily into the sky, and the plumes—now white—appeared to catch fire in the early sunlight.

So mesmerized by the sight was she that she nearly missed it.

Below, a whitetail stepped cautiously onto the trail that passed beneath the foot of the stand. The buck paused in the small clearing, and it was the swishing flash of his tail that caught Beth's eye. The sun streamed between the trees, dappling his coat like a young fawn, the slender prongs of his antlers aglow with light.

"Daryl," she whispered, without hesitation. She knew what it would mean, waking him. _But he's gotta see this…_ Crouching beside him, she placed her hand upon his broad shoulder and gently shook him awake. "Daryl," she said again, a bit more forcefully this time. Mumbling something unintelligible, he rolled over to face her.

"What the—Beth?" His was a harsh croak, full of sleep.

"Shh," she beckoned him to the railing.

Almost instantly, he was there beside her, crouched low behind the blind, his crossbow in his hand, looking down at the clearing below. "Well, ain't that a sight for sore eyes." His voice was tired, but full of reverence. "You done right to wake me, Greene."

Beth felt absurdly pleased with herself in that moment, and could not help but smile brightly at him.

And then, Daryl proceeded to do something she'd never witnessed before—he drew his crossbow from a sitting position, so as not to startle the animal below. Once drawn and loaded, he rested the bow against the boards and squinted down its length, taking aim.

Beth glanced down again, and when she saw the lone deer standing there, still as a statue, its dark eyes full of wariness and the wild, an image of her father's horses came to her. In that moment, she almost wanted to beg Daryl not to shoot it after all. She knew she was being silly, it wasn't like she'd never seen a deer before. It wasn't as though she'd never seen one shot before. And it certainly wasn't as though she'd never partaken of the tender, lean meat herself. Memories came to her then: Otis' yearly deer harvests, and more recently, of the delicious venison meals Daryl had provided for them at the prison. It didn't matter what she wanted. Need outweighed all.

Daryl looked over at her then, and gestured to his bow. "You wanna—?" he asked in a low whisper.

Beth could scarcely believe it—he was offering her this most precious of shots. She was flattered, touched, even, but she knew in her heart that she could not, would not, be able to do this. It was too much of a risk; one mistake in her aim, and she might miss it entirely. Or, she might shoot wide, hit it in the guts and ruin the meat. Even worse, she might hit it somewhere less than lethal, and then the poor creature would run for miles and miles, in fear and in pain. No, she could not risk such a thing.

She looked at Daryl then, and shook her head. He nodded to her, and she felt in that moment the mutual, wordless respect between them deepen.

It was then that he aimed the bow once more, downward toward the path below. In all her time with him out there in the forest, Beth had never seen such a look of concentration on his face. She'd seen him shoot countless squirrels seemingly without even blinking or breaking a sweat. But this, this was different. Daryl had transformed before her eyes, and appeared now in what could only be described as a man's most primal form: that of a hunter, about to meet his prey. He seemed to exist solely in the moment, in that beautiful, terrible stillness between life and death.

Before she could think on it any further, there was the familiar _whoosh_ and _thrum_ , the sound of something hollow being pierced right through. And then the clearing exploded in movement as the buck sprinted and stumbled away, out of sight, into the underbrush.

"Hell, yeah!" Daryl whooped. "That's what I'm talkin' about. That's a lung-shot if I ever saw one. Damn walkers best not get this one, or else."

He looked straight at her then, and his eyes seemed to shine, his face appeared somehow younger and less careworn. _He is himself, and yet somehow…more_. Relief washed over her, for she knew that she had made the right decision in waking him. Daryl had wanted this shot; he had _needed_ this shot.

All the same, some part of her understood that he had done this, in some way, for her. But Beth was just glad that she had been able to give him this. _He's always findin' stuff for me,_ she thought.

It was the least she could do for her companion.

…

Alone in the deer stand, beneath the swiftly lightening sky, Beth's imagination ran wild.

They had waited a little while together up there before Daryl, armed as always with his knife and crossbow, had climbed down the ladder. Heart in her throat, she'd watched as he'd disappeared into the forest to track the deer to where it had surely by now fallen.

He had ordered her to remain there, telling her this would be swifter, easier on his own. Safer. He'd have to field-dress it, he said, and that could take some time. Beth had nodded her assent, but as she had watched him go off into the woods on his own, she had felt a sudden pang, a loneliness that confused and frightened her. Even when they had played their game out there, it was different. She always knew he'd find her, and would be there at her side again, within minutes.

Beth had never had a problem being alone, before. If anything, at the prison she'd cherished her rare moments spent alone in her cell, writing in her diary or lost in thought, those moments untroubled by anyone or anything. She hadn't worried about Daryl, when he'd lead the runs back at the prison—if she had, she would have been paralyzed with concern all the time. She hadn't even let herself worry about Maggie, or Glenn, or even Zach, despite the dangers. At the prison, she hadn't allowed herself that luxury. But that was before. Before her father. Before they'd lost everyone they knew.

Maybe it was simply habit, she thought. Maybe she was just so used to his strong, reliable presence now, that she had come to take it for granted.

Maybe, she couldn't help but worry about him, now. Couldn't stop her heart constricting with the thought of _"What if?"_ , not even if she tried.

Beth stood at the edge of the platform against the railing, and gazed down upon the forest below. She knew that Daryl could take care of himself. Maybe, he could do so even better when she wasn't there. And yet, as she looked out across the treetops, she saw that tower of smoke still coiling up toward the heavens, and she felt ill at ease. She remembered the day she had stepped from the seeming-safety of the prison out into the yard, flying in the face of all logic. But that day she had felt somehow, deep down, that she was needed down there in the prison yard. She didn't know if that was true, for she still wondered sometimes if, had she acted differently, that maybe she wouldn't have lost—but no, it was over and done. If she had acted differently, she would not have seen her father that one, last, horrible time. She wouldn't have known the prison was under attack until the fences had already fallen. She may not have gotten out with Daryl. She may not have gotten out at all.

And so it was that, against all logic, and possibly even common sense, she adjusted Daryl's vest across her shoulders—he hadn't asked for it back—shouldered the pack, and moved to the edge of the platform. She made the descent down the ladder with extra caution, taking each wooden rung one by one, slowly, never looking down. Her gaze remained fixed upon the clear morning sky until her feet landed upon solid ground once more.

Standing amidst the tall, shadowing trees, she unsheathed her knife and looked around. For a moment, the forest seemed dark, impenetrable, and she felt a surge of self-doubt, bordering on panic. What was she thinking? Was she crazy? _Get a hold of yourself, Greene,_ she thought, taking a deep breath. She had watched where Daryl had started his tracking, she had seen where the deer had crashed into the trees, due west. She could do this.

At first, she searched the forest floor for tracks, but the ground beneath her feet was too dry, too solid and she could not make the prints out clearly. She squinted harder, and there it was, frothy and crimson upon the fronds of a fern. Blood.

There was nothing else to do but to follow the trail, then. With her knife in her hand and her eyes constantly darting, she searched each leaf, each fern for the signs, the little dots and splotches of bright, red blood. Soon enough, she was far from the stand, at least a mile or so out. And even though every part of her still cried out with the sting of doubt, she knew she had to keep going, for it would be folly to turn back when she could be near to him.

The forest through which she navigated was a wood of mixed maple, hickory, pine, and oak, and its trees seemed massive, ancient. Or maybe it was just that she was small, and alone. The undergrowth grew dense there, and at times she could not see very far ahead, could only move carefully between the bushes and hanging vines. She was grateful then for the leather vest, for it shielded her from the worst of the scratching thorns and branches.

She managed to make out the print of his heavy boots here and there, but more often than not she struggled to see where his feet had fallen upon the dry, covered earth. Without the crimson trail to follow, she knew this would have been futile.

She knew she would have been lost.

Beth had never before been so relieved, so…elated at the sight of blood.

The trail went on for some time, and she began once more to wonder if she had been insane to attempt this. Every sound in that forest seemed amplified to her ears, and as she walked she listened for the hissing, moaning groans that would surely signal her doom out here, unless she caught up to him soon.

It was then she saw that the small spots of red had disappeared from the shoots and leaves around her, and she gulped down the rising fear that she had made some wrong turn somewhere. She forced herself to halt, just for a moment, and take a slow, deep, calming breath. _It wouldn't kill you to have a little faith, Greene._ Having admonished herself, she took her own words to heart, and pressed onward. Still clutching the vest tightly around her shoulders, she held her head high, but kept her searching eyes affixed upon the ground.

There. There it was, the faintest splatter: red upon a brown, fallen leaf. She'd found it again. And there, a few feet ahead, a larger splotch of blood, and then a smear, as though the deer had fallen, and then from this point on been dragged. Her heartbeat quickened in her chest; she had to be close now.

She came then to the edge of a circle—a grove—of huge, towering trees. Between those trunks, through the dense foliage, her eyes darted quickly, seeking. For there was movement beyond, she could almost see. It had to be… but she knew she needed to be sure, just in case…

With a trembling hand she lifted a hanging vine and pushed it aside. Beth shivered to feel cold, wet drops land upon her bare skin—leaves still dripping with morning dew. She peered once more through the thin branches, squinting slightly, for her view was still partially blocked by the tangled brambles. Uncaring if thorns once more dragged across the thick leather hide that had shielded her throughout her lone search, she shouldered her way through the undergrowth.

Still holding a breath she scarcely knew she'd drawn, she stepped quietly, lightly toward the very edge of the clearing. And there, with faint warmth of the early sun's light kissing her face, she halted in her own tracks.

The blood-trail, it seemed, had come to its inevitable end.

For there in the center of the grove was the man she'd sought, standing over the antlered form of the stag. He must have dragged it there, to where there was more space to perform the grim task of field-dressing its carcass. Knife firmly in hand, he was gutting it now, working steadily, his hair once more darkened with sweat, once more plastered to the sides of his face. From afar, he appeared more than a little dangerous, up to his elbows as he was in the creature's blood. _Does it all end in blood?_ Beth wondered. And for a terrifying moment she flashed back to the previous day, to a different clearing. But there were no walkers here, just the deer. And Daryl.

 _Daryl_. She could have cried with relief.

Beth wanted to run out to him, then. But something stopped her, held her back. She stood still, just as he'd taught her, partially hidden behind a great oak, and observed him with fascination. It wasn't as though she had never seen an animal butchered—she'd grown up on a farm where such things were part of the constant cycle of life and death. And it wasn't as if she'd never seen a man covered in blood before. She'd see plenty of that. Too much, even. She'd seen Daryl hunt, she'd seen him kill. Seen him kill walkers…and men, too. She'd seen him skin snakes and the small squirrels and cottontails that had sustained them out here for so long. And yet, the way he sliced and cut through the great stag with such ease, such effortless strength, as if he'd done it a thousand times—and maybe he had—stirred something within her.

Not fear, no. But something perhaps just as heart-stopping.

She'd watched Jimmy once, back on her daddy's farm, watched him chopping wood one day from behind the barn. She'd giggled into her hands, thinking how fine he'd looked when he was all sweaty. And at the prison, during those all-too short weeks she'd been with Zach, she'd often made her way down to the prison yard after she'd finished her jobs for the day, and stood there watching him tinker with that car of his until it grew dark. Afterward, they'd fooled around in the back seat, like they were just two kids on a date, and the end of the world meant nothing at all. To think of it now filled her with an exquisite ache deep inside—the memory of burning; the memory of feeling alive.

Now, Beth found herself rooted to her spot at the edge of the trees, unable to draw her gaze away from the sight before her. In that moment, as Daryl crouched there beside the creature's form, he appeared feral, almost lupine—a beast with red limbs and a sharp tooth, dripping with blood.

She must have gasped aloud, or made some noise, for his head came up then suddenly and he saw her. A look of fear passed over his face, transforming him into mortal man once more.

"Beth?" he breathed, as if he wasn't sure that she was real. And then without another moment's hesitation, he made his way toward her, covering the space of the clearing in quick, purposeful strides. He was in front of her then, reaching out toward her, only to recall belatedly that his hands and arms were drenched in blood. He dropped them to his sides and looked at her with worry. "Beth, what the—you alright?"

She just stood there, looking up at him. She realized she must look either crazed or ridiculous—or both, appearing out of nowhere, all scratched and scraped by thorns, still wearing his too-big leather vest and gripping her small knife like she was surrounded by a whole herd. "I'm fine, everythin's fine," she said, sheathing her blade. For a moment, her heart fluttered strangely, and she avoided meeting his eye.

"Then, why—?" He studied her closely then, and must have seen the answer in her expression. "Jesus, Beth, I told you to stay put!" He moved toward her, and for the first time since the moonshiner's shack she heard a trace of dark menace in his voice.

She did not look away, but held his gaze in quiet defiance.

Almost immediately, Daryl's tone softened again. "You track me out here?"

"I followed the blood," she explained. "The trail, I mean." She smiled tentatively. "Just like you said."

A look of wonderment crossed his face for a fleeting moment; almost immediately it was replaced by the familiar, stoic mask of old. "Hmmph," he grunted. He looked over at her again, and chewed the inside of his cheek, pondering. "Seein' as you're here now, might as well watch how it's done. C'mon."

Daryl motioned for her to come with him, and she followed, stepping cautiously across the clearing towards the carcass of the deer. "Think you can stomach it?" he asked her.

"Course I can," she said airily, though truth be told, she did feel a bit queasy. "Seen my share of guttin' by now."

"Damn right," he said, his mouth corners upturned. "Done your fair share of it, too, I'd say."

 _Teasin' me as always._ Today, she didn't mind.

"Now, I don't normally do this, but seein' as it's your first—"

"But I didn't—" she began to protest.

"You sighted it, you saw it first—it's yours." He gestured to the half-gutted whitetail at his feet. And then, with his large knife pointed downward, he swooped over the carcass for a moment, and when he stood up again he held what could only have been the creature's heart in his hand. With his knife, he sliced off a piece, and offered it to her, impaled on the point of his blade, raw and still dripping with blood.

Beth gulped. _He can't mean…_ "Serious?"

"Serious."

"Oh."

She stepped forward then, toward the proffered morsel. She took it between her teeth, as daintily as she could, straight from the tip of his weapon. The chunk of heart was chewy, still warm, and extremely rich. As the blood ran down her throat, hot and thick, she thought she might throw up, but she held it back, swallowed it down. She locked eyes with Daryl then, and saw that he was staring.

"What?" she demanded.

"Just look at you, goin' all _Temple of Doom_ on it," he said, unsuccessfully stifling a smirk.

Beth had to smile back despite herself. She watched as Daryl cut another piece, this time for himself. He chewed it slowly, still holding her gaze. When he was finished, he tossed the remnants into the gut pile.

At her confused expression, he smiled. "Coyotes gotta eat, same as us."

"What about walkers?" she asked, gesturing to the pile of organs, already drawing a few buzzing flies. "Won't it…won't they come too?"

"Nah, any 'round these parts, would've been on us by now."

"What would you have done?" she asked him. "If they'd come at you out here, all by yourself?"

"Same as always. Would've fought 'em off." He studied her face for a moment. "I would've come back, you know that right? To the stand. To…you."

The last word hung between them for a moment. He glanced down at the forest floor and then looked back up at her under hooded eyes.

Beth felt a blush creeping up her neck. Had she been unwise to come out here on her own? Had she been foolish to be so worried about him?

"You got a lil' somethin'." Daryl motioned to his own face. His hands, still covered in deer's blood, left a red trail on his chin.

Beth rubbed her own chin with the back of her hand. "Did I get it?"

"Here," he said. He still held his big hunting knife in one hand, but with the other he drew out his old, red rag. He stepped closer to her and reached out to wipe her face with it, and as he did, his blood-stained fingers brushed the side of her face, her chin. As he drew the cloth upward, his thumb moved almost imperceptibly against her mouth, and there it was, the rich, irony taste once more upon her lips. "Got it," he said, his voice low and rough.

As if guided by some unseen force, Beth brought her own hand up to Daryl's arm then, and gently pulled it down. The red rag dropped to the ground between them, forgotten. She felt the thick veins beneath his skin as she grasped his forearm. An instant later, his warm hand engulfed her own arm, his grip firm and strong. It seemed to her like a warrior's handshake, an oath sworn in blood. For, oh!—the blood was on her hands now. The deer's blood. _Her_ deer.

They stood like that, arms clasped, unspeaking, for some time. Neither one of them was quick to let go.

It was Daryl who finally broke the grip, and the silence, clearing his throat. "Your deer ain't gonna skin itself." He motioned toward the form the antlered creature at their feet. "Best get goin'."

"Yes," she breathed.

They remained there together, in that circle of trees as the morning sky brightened to blue above them. Beth gazed across at her companion, watched as he bent to thrust his knife once more into the deer's sinews, resuming his bloody work with practiced ease. It was the ease only a skilled hunter possessed, only a man who was at home out here, in the forest. In that moment, Beth thought that she could watch him for the rest of her life—however long or short that might be—and still she would not learn all there was to learn about him. _There's still so much he hasn't taught me,_ she thought. _There's still so much I haven't shown him._

And then she knew. In her heart, she knew what she must do, and the realization was a flame that had grown steadily inside her for some time now. If Daryl Dixon was going be the last man standing, then she would do everything in her power to be standing right there with him.

She moved closer then, stepping carefully around the sharp prongs of the antlers to stand at his side. Cloaked as she was in his leather vest, his second skin, the blood-taste still lingering in her mouth, a strange sensation pulsed through her. It was a transformation, a _becoming._

With a thrill, Beth wondered if maybe she had a chance. Maybe, just maybe, she would stand his equal out here someday. Maybe, just maybe, she already did.

The day was still young, and in those wild and perilous woods, anything was possible.

…

**** **IMPORTANT REMINDER** ****

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	5. Over the Lake pt I

_"There's bound to be a ghost at the back of your closet_  
 _No matter where you live"_  
\- 'Up the Wolves'

…

Some folk might have thought it passing strange, to laugh at the end of the world.

Beth thought it was beautiful. She could not help but marvel that even in a land where the dead might be listening, a forest could still echo with laughter. Her own, and Daryl's—for that rare sound she had thought never to hear again from her companion now rang out, mingling with birdsong amidst the trees.

They had been up since dawn, following a swiftly running stream, and had come to a place where the spaces between the trees had opened into a wide field of yellow grass and bracken, punctuated by small pines and young, slender birches. Straying a ways from the edge of the water, they had now wandered into the dry grass, stopping for a moment to share a bottle of water that they had refilled earlier from the stream.

Time seemed to be moving strangely again, slowing down, speeding up, seeping into the spaces around them. Beth could scarcely believe it was just a day since Daryl had shot the deer, only a day since she had followed the bloody trail and found him, all on her own. She remembered how, once the creature had been gutted, she had watched, fascinated, as Daryl had lifted it over his broad shoulders, its great antlers crowning his own head. _Like he was the king of the whole damn forest,_ she mused.

Daryl had carried the carcass out of the clearing, and soon after they had arrived at the banks of this self-same stream, only farther downriver. Beth had watched from the sandbank as he had waded into the flowing water, and had held the body of the great creature against the current. She had offered to help, but he had insisted on doing this part on his own. He had explained then that it was easier to drain the deer's blood this way. That it would be quicker and less risky than stringing it up, for the flowing water would carry the lifeblood far away downstream, and fast, thereby lessening the chance of hungry walkers stumbling upon them.

Once they had bled and finishing butchering their kill, they had cooked as much of the venison as they could there on the spot. And after stuffing themselves silly with the fresh, lean meat, they had wrapped the rest in the remaining cloths they'd been carrying around since the stables. What little had remained of their prey that they could not consume or fit into their pack was mostly sinew and bone. Even so, they had reluctantly left the remnants behind, to be devoured by the coyotes and crows, by the walkers and the worms.

They had then knelt beside the cold waters of the stream and had washed the caked, drying blood from hands, arms, and mouths. They had washed the dirt and sweat and blood from their faces, washed all signs of the hunt from the surface. And yet, since the moment Beth had climbed down from the protective tower of the deer stand and made her way across the forest, alone and unaided to Daryl's side, it was as if something wild had entered her heart and made its nest there. Something that would not be so easily driven away.

As evening had fallen, they had made camp close to the edge of the stream. That night, beneath the glittering stars and the faint sliver of the waning moon, Beth had once again slept wrapped in Daryl's second skin, his winged leather vest, and had lain pressed against his warm, broad back, her arms curled tightly around his chest. And once more, as dawn broke upon them, they spoke not a word about it.

Once they had packed up their camp, Beth had handed Daryl his vest again with a wordless smile. While the morning was yet chill, the early sun beat down strongly upon them and she wanted to feel the heat of it upon her skin, wanted to absorb as much of its light and energy as possible. Daryl had just nodded and answered with a slight quirk of his lips, one that had only become more pronounced as the dawn progressed into morning.

Standing now beneath the clear, brilliant blue of an early autumn sky, as a chill morning breeze kissed their faces, she felt more refreshed and rejuvenated than ever. She had forgotten what a difference a couple of hot, filling meals could make to one's energy levels, for they had eaten very well indeed since their kill.

Daryl carried their venison-laden pack and Beth, unburdened and overjoyed at the newness of the day, practically danced around him, unable to keep still. She took a quick sip from the water bottle they had been sharing, and, suddenly overcome with a playful impulse, splashed her companion with a dash of water, full in the face.

He sputtered as the water hit him; she had, for once, caught him completely off-guard. "Said I wanted a drink, not a goddamn shower," he grunted at her side. He shook the water droplets from the dark tangles of his hair, like a dog shaking the rain off its back.

Even as the cool spray hit her own face, Beth just laughed again. "Maybe you needed one."

"That's it," he barked, pointing a finger at her. "I'm gonna get you." And he grabbed the bottle that she still held in her hand, and wrenched it up to her face, dumping a splash of cold water down the front of her shirt, like a naughty boy in the playground.

Without thinking, she threw a retaliatory punch squarely at his chest. Damn the man, but he didn't even flinch as her fist hit him—he just stood there looking at her like thunder. Slowly, he walked forward into the pressure of her hand, making her step backward slightly.

"You best run," he said, and his voice was a low menace.

Beth just gazed, direct and unflinching, into the narrowed slants of his eyes, and then gave him one last splash with her water bottle. Still laughing, she sprinted away, feeling faster than ever, practically flying cross the parched yellow grass toward the stream, the dry bracken crunching satisfactorily beneath her boots.

"Ain't gonna keep that pace up for long!" Daryl called after her.

"What? 'Fraid you can't catch me?" she shouted back over her shoulder.

As she expected, at her bold dare he raced after her, and soon she sensed him at her heels, hounding her onward toward the rushing water.

Where the field met the sandbank, he closed in on her. Beth felt the familiar lurch of her stomach as he caught her from behind, capturing her wrist and holding it fast in his rough grip. She twisted away from him, and yet it was but a halfhearted attempt. He yanked her close against him then, and with his other hand began to tickle her sides until she was shrieking. Now she pulled away in earnest, but being nearly paralytic with laughter she collapsed to the ground instead. Giving in to her momentum, Daryl rolled to the earth beside her. They lay sprawled side-by-side upon the golden grass, gasping for breath beside the stream, halfway beneath the shade of a willow and the open, blue sky.

Chests rising and falling together, they lay there for an interminable length of time. Eventually, Beth felt her breath coming back to her and she began to relax in a way she had not in an age. Above the gurgling of the stream, she could hear the rustling of small creatures in the grass, the faint cries of birds passing high overhead, and the wind sighing through the branches. An answering breeze stirred the willow's tiny, golden leaves into a shimmering, dancing flurry around them. Lying there together, looking up through sheltering branches into the piercing blue sky marbled with high, thin clouds, Beth thought that a day like this must surely be the last gasp of summer.

She cast a furtive glance at Daryl beside her and his face bore an expression that made the fluttering organ in her breast feel suddenly feel far too big for its cage, for it was a smile she had not seen in a long time—one that she thought she'd never see again. It was the softness that had crossed his face whenever he'd passed her and Lil' Asskicker in the halls at the prison, the smile when he'd come back from a particularly hard run, as Judy's little hands reached out for him, her favorite uncle, and he had taken her to hold for just a moment in his strong arms. It was a subtle quirk of his lips that conveyed to a careful observer his contentment, even happiness. And yet, it was not Judith he was smiling at today.

She could hear her companion's steady breathing, could sense the rise and fall of his chest; in that moment she was wholly aware of his masculine form, the hard planes of his stomach just visible beneath the bottom of his vest and shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, the contours of his muscled arms, the cut of his jaw, the way his Adam's apple jutted just so when he rested on his back. Lying there beside him as she was, she experienced a strong urge to reach out for him herself, an urge so powerful she almost could not resist…and for a moment, it frightened her.

In all her young life, before and after the turning of the world, Beth had never thought twice about expressing her affection in physical terms—it was something that came as naturally to her as breathing. After all, she had reached out to him before, in his grief, in his sorrow. But something about this, this…contentment gave her pause, and she was more than a little confused by her own hesitation. She knew not what to do with herself, and so she stood up quickly, brushing the dried grass and little leaves from the seat of her jeans.

Daryl was on his feet beside her in an instant, hand already upon his knife. "What it is, Greene? See somethin'?" he asked quietly.

"No, I just… I think we should keep movin'. You always say 'the day ain't waitin'.'"

He still had a little half-smile playing upon his lips as he looked at her. "All right. Where d'you wanna go?"

"You want _me_ to decide?"

"Yeah, why the hell not? You've got a good feel for these woods," he said, gesturing around them. "Proved that already… and then some."

"Serious?" She could not help but feel mighty pleased with herself.

"Serious."

 _He's still smilin' at me._ "All right." She breathed deeply, gathering her thoughts. "I think we should stick close to the stream. It's been good, havin' drinkin' water close. And it gives us a path to follow, but still lets us hide in the trees and avoid the roads. And, this way, we've got cover on one whole side—don't think we ever met a walker that could swim," she added.

Still looking at her, Daryl nodded his agreement; it was all the encouragement she needed. As always, she took heart from his praise, verbal or otherwise. She didn't know why his opinion mattered so—she'd never wanted any man's approval for anything in her life—other than maybe her daddy's, of course—but it did. Perhaps it was just that he was the only companion left to her now. Perhaps it was just that he had become a friend and mentor of sorts to her in their time on the run. Perhaps that's all it was.

As they walked alongside the stream, Beth found the prints of a deer where it had paused to lower its head to drink from the clear, flowing water. A few paces down, she noticed the spot where a raccoon had clearly been washing its food upon the muddy bank. And there, the faint marks of a bird's feet—a crow perhaps—where it had hopped along the stream bank. Looking for leftovers from the raccoon's meal, she fancied. She had yet to see any signs of people, living or dead—only the usual creatures of the forest—and she told Daryl as much. He inclined his head again in agreement, and they pressed onward.

There came a place where the pathway narrowed, and they were forced to move single file upon the treacherous ground, stepping over exposed, tangled roots of sycamore, river birch, and willow along the riverbank. They took care not to stray too close to the edge, lest they lose footing and slip beyond grasp into the swift waters. It was only after they were safely past, only after Beth let out a deep breath that she realized that Daryl, who had been behind her, had kept his hand firmly upon her back the whole way.

When the path finally widened enough for them to walk side by side once more, Beth resumed seeking a trail, looking out for tracks as they went. While trying her best to keep her eyes fixed upon the way ahead and the ground in front, she nonetheless noticed something about the man beside her—for though Daryl had gone very quiet, every so often he would look at her and scratch the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth curved upward in a little smile.

…

"Think we're gettin' close? " Beth asked a few miles later, when they had paused for a moment. The stream had widened considerably now, and as they were traveling upstream, she knew it was only a matter of time before they came to its point of origin, or to where it branched out from yet a larger river—a place at which they would have to make a decision.

"You know what I'm gonna say," Daryl replied. "You tell me."

"You really don't know where we are?" Beth stopped for a moment, looking over at him, unsure if he truly was unacquainted with their location, or if he was just messing with her.

"Told you, this here's unfamiliar ground—I ain't never been 'round these parts before. Not even Michonne and I got this far together. So, you're guidin' me as much as I'm guidin' you."

"Oh," she breathed. "Yeah, guess I am."

"Mmm. Findin' a path through uncharted territory? I'd say that makes you a real Sacagawea."

Beth giggled. "Say it again."

"What? _Sacagawea_?"

"Yeah." She liked the name, and the way it rolled off his tongue.

Daryl grunted. "Know who she was, right?"

Beth thought back to her history classes in high school, though it seemed like eons ago now. "She helped Lewis and Clark, didn't she?"

"Hell yeah. And they wouldnt've made it far without her neither," Daryl muttered.

"Never took you for such a history nut, Mr. Dixon," Beth said, unable to resist the taunt, but smiling with it all the same.

He looked at her for a long moment. "Some things just stick with you, I guess."

Beth grinned widely back at him and resumed her onward march, leading them both further up the stream.

It was only a matter of time; sooner or later, Beth knew they would encounter a sign of what might once have been called civilization. And, sure enough, as the dawn transformed into late morning, they came to spot where the stream had widened considerably and its currents strengthened to the point where it would have been impossible to ford it safely. There, spanning the width of the flowing river was a long wooden bridge.

Beth found that she was tempted to cross it simply because it was there. She looked at Daryl, for some sign of what she ought to do, but his face remained unreadable. _He's waitin' for me to decide._ She furrowed her brow. This side of the river had served them well thus far; there was as yet no real reason to cross. If they ran into trouble, she supposed they could always backtrack and find the bridge again.

"We keep goin'," she said finally, pointing to where the sandbank ahead of them veered slightly to their left. "This way."

She felt Daryl's hand lightly upon her shoulder, just the slightest brush of his fingertips through the fabric of her shirt, and was thankful for his wordless reassurance. Together they moved silently beneath the willow branches that hung over the riverbank and passed the wooden bridge, keeping their eyes fixed upon the way before them, as if they had not even seen it.

And yet, within less than a mile of that wooden structure, they came to the edge of a far denser wood than the one they'd been hiking through all morning—one of tall pines amidst broadleaf—and here they were forced to a halt. For where there was one sign of man, another was sure to follow, and this time, it was a literal one. Hanging upon a low, barbed wire fence at the edge of the tree-line, the rusted metal plaque read:

PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.

For a moment Beth wondered if they really should turn back and head for the bridge, as the fence went on quite a distance to the left, and on the right it only ended at the very edge of the water. And yet, in its way, this fence and its sign posed perhaps an even greater temptation than the bridge. _Some rules are made to be broken_. The warning on the sign seemed like dare. _A challenge._ She looked over at Daryl then, and it was as though he had read her very thoughts.

"You wanna?" he asked, eyebrow raised beneath his long, lank hair, and that ever-so-slight smile still curving his mouth.

"Hell yeah _,_ " she said, with conviction.

Without wasting another moment, Daryl was onto the task. Using the thick sole of his brown leather boot, he stomped on the jagged wire, pushing it right down to the ground, bringing the whole fence with it. He stood staunchly upon it and gestured for her to cross. She leaped over the downed wire and he followed quickly behind her.

They made their way steadily through the dense undergrowth, passing beneath towering trees on every side. Here the sunlight barely reached them through the thick canopy overhead. And yet, Beth could see that, not too far ahead, there was a light, an opening—perhaps a clearing of sorts—and so she quickened her pace. She felt drawn ever-forward, as if she were being pulled by some force beyond understanding toward an unknown goal. All she knew is that this had been her task, to lead them somewhere today, and she would complete it.

Daryl was close behind her, pressing through the thick bushes while keeping his crossbow clear of the hanging vines. She glanced back at him, just for a moment, and then stepped forward. Blindingly bright sunlight hit her eyes, and she felt the ground suddenly, inexplicably slide beneath her feet.

She was glad of the dense undergrowth then, for she grabbed hold of the first thing within reach: a slim stalk of a young birch tree. It bent forward and she found herself teetering precariously over a sloping ravine. Just as quickly, she felt Daryl rush up behind her—his free arm came around her in one swift moment, encircling her upper body, and she was never so grateful as she was then for his ability to catch up to her so fast, even when she fancied herself so far ahead of him. She grabbed hold of his forearm then, not to twist out of his grasp like she would in one of their games, but to hold on and steady herself, and regain her footing. The smooth soles of her boots did not lend themselves to gaining traction, but Daryl pulled her gently toward him so she was leaning against him, and he stepped them both back onto firmer ground.

"Got some kinda death-wish, Greene?" His breath was hot in her ear. "Nearly done us both in."

"Sorry." Her heart pounded in her chest, and she heaved a steadying sigh. "'m okay now," she told him in a small voice, and she felt him release her immediately, and step back.

"You sure?" He sounded unconvinced.

"Yeah," she said. "Thanks."

He just nodded, but continued looking at her as though concerned she thought she had sprouted wings and would attempt to fly off the side of the ravine again any moment.

Careful this time to watch her step, Beth cautiously moved one foot forward toward the edge of the trees to look out over the sloping ridge, to gaze out upon what lay beyond. As her eyes readjusted to the bright sunlight, she nearly gasped aloud. They had, it seemed, finally reached the end of the stream.

Or rather, they had arrived at its source.

Before them lay a wide, shimmering lake surrounded by vast, dense forest. Mirror-like, the still waters reflected the perfect blue of the morning sky. The trees here seemed only just lightly touched by the hand of fall; their slight orange hue contrasted prettily with the rows of dark green pines reflected in the blue of the lake. On the south shore stood a row of small wooden houses—cabins, perhaps, or summer cottages. The scene in its entirety appeared to Beth like something out of a magazine—glossy, perfect. From where they stood it seemed a place untouched by time, a place from the old world. The sight of it stirred a strange mix of emotions, and made her want to both laugh, and weep.

She turned to Daryl then, and reflected within his deep blue gaze was a look of wonderment to match her own; he seemed as entranced by the sight before them as she. Clearly, he had not expected their journey upstream to lead them to a place such as this. Beth knew without even asking him that they would head down to the lakeshore and check things out for themselves, for they had come this far. _And why the hell shouldn't we?_

It wasn't as if they were expected elsewhere, or that they needed to wait for an invitation—it was the end of the world after all.

…

Silently, they'd skirted around the edge of the lake, sticking to the cover of the trees for as long as possible until they reached the houses. Anyone could be there, Daryl had said, sounding more like his usual suspicious self again.

It was only as they came closer to the row of wooden cabins that they noticed a driveway, a dirt and gravel access road of sorts that ran parallel to the south shore. It made sense, of course, but it put them on edge nonetheless. It had been a long time since they had encountered any roads or cars, and they had their reasons for avoiding such. But no matter, they would treat this as just another place, and would proceed as usual, checking carefully for walkers—or people—inside.

And so it was with curiosity mixed with caution that they finally approached the first wooden lodge, which was located on top of a low, stony ridge above the water. In Beth's case, it was a cautiousness born of these long, arduous weeks and months on the run; for Daryl, she knew it was a lifetime of wariness that made him step so slow and careful-like up that flight of wooden steps and onto the porch, like a bobcat slinking through tall grass.

She came up the stairs close behind him, but he motioned for her to stay back while he made the usual 'courtesy call'. Opening the screen door, he tapped once, twice on the inside door and waited on the porch, which wrapped around the side and the front of the lodge. While they waited, Beth observed that though small wooden cabin had not been boarded up, its windows remained unbroken all the same. From where she stood she could see long wooden stairs leading from the porch down the side of the stony ridge to the lake. At the bottom, there was a long wooden dock with a little rowboat moored to it.

Seconds lengthened into minutes and still there was no sound from inside, and so, nodding silently to one another, they took their chance. The door opened easily with a low creak—if it had been locked it had not been latched very tightly—and they stepped through it. As her eyes adjusted to the play of light and shadows within, Beth took in the interior of the wooden cabin.

She didn't know what she had expected, really. Overturned furniture, a thick layer of dust and grime, broken glass, clothing, and belongings strewn everywhere, perhaps. Like the country club, or any number of places she'd been since the turn. But this house, despite being unlit and dim inside, was otherwise intact. Sure, the air inside was a bit stale and musty, but its wooden floors and walls were still decorated with colorfully-woven rugs and cheerful paintings. Daryl had already moved through the dining area into the living room, where an inviting sofa and armchair faced a stone-lined fireplace.

Moving into the kitchen area, Beth was drawn immediately to the little window above the sink. She pushed open the lacy curtains, letting daylight into the room. Peering through the glass, she could see across the porch, through the trees, and all the way down to the lake. A different vantage, yes, but the view from this location was just as breathtaking as it had been when she had seen it standing on that precipice, and she could well understand why someone would have a summer house here. And not only was the view from this particular lodge spectacular, she also had to admit that the interior emanated coziness, warmth, and something long-forgotten, something approaching…home _._

Beth looked over to the living room where Daryl stood very still, leaning against the fireplace with his bow lowered at his side. He seemed entranced by something on the mantle, perhaps he was considering the dust there beneath his fingers. Measuring time.

From where she stood at the sink she watched him for a long moment. Surrounded by the confines of the neat and tidy house, Daryl seemed, by contrast, more feral than ever, all creaking leather, muddy boots, dirt, sweat, and raw muscle. In that quaint little living room, he stood out starkly, like a coyote in a cottontail's warren. Perhaps he sensed as much, for he shifted awkwardly, as though unsure what to do with himself in such space.

She called over to him: "Guess we better clear the rest of it, huh?"

Daryl looked up from the mantle, and nodded, raising his crossbow and motioning to her to stay behind him. She let him walk in front of her down the hallway toward the back rooms. She doubted there was a walker inside, but of course, they could never been too careful.

In truth, she had come to appreciate his protectiveness in a way. Beth had once thought him worse than Shawn, but in reality Daryl's attentiveness to her safety never felt overbearing, but rather…she could scarcely put a word to it. _Indispensable_ , she recalled having thought of him once, long ago, back at the prison. He was that, certainly, and yet so much more.

They moved down the hallway single file, stopping at the bathroom on their left. Daryl kicked open door which was already slightly ajar, and the darkness inside quickly dissipated. Nothing seemed to be lurking behind the shower curtains, so they pressed on. Only the room at the end of the hallway remained, and as they approached, he placed himself in front of her once more and opened the door slowly.

As usual Daryl entered first. Beth halted just inside, and even from the doorway she noticed immediately that this room was bright and airy, with two large windows, one facing the back of the house, one facing the front. The white, lacy curtains on each were drawn back, allowing daylight to stream through the glass, illuminating the fluffy white carpet on the wooden-paneled floor and the white bedspread upon a giant king-sized bed. All indicated this could be none other than, well, the bedroom. It looked, Beth realized with a start, like some kind of rustic honeymoon suite.

Daryl swept the space in no time. After peering into a narrow set of doors beside the far window, he called over to her: "Don't you worry, Greene, ain't no monsters in this closet."

Beth just stared at him, eyebrows raised, hand resting upon the little knife at her hip. "Do I look worried or somethin'?" She began to move toward where he stood between the closet and the bed.

"Hold up." Daryl raised his hand and motioned for her to stay back, seeming deadly serious. He then stooped beside the enormous bed and lifted its lacy white bedskirt with a flick of his wrist. "No monsters under this one, neither," he grinned. "All clear."

Bemused by his teasing, she moved toward the bed and the closet as Daryl came to stand by the front window. For a brief moment, their paths crossed in front of the dressing table, over which hung a large mirror, and Beth caught a flash of his reflection and then—before she could avoid it—her own. She could have laughed out loud at the sight. And here she had thought Daryl too wild for this little cabin. It hit her, with the force of an autumn gale, that with her torn and bloodied clothing, and her tangled, matted mane, she too must surely seem far too uncivilized for such a place. And yet… _Maybe we'll stop here for a spell. Let the outside in and the inside out_.

Moving now to peer out of the back window, she observed an overgrown yard, a garden and tool shed, a woodpile, and a gravel pathway, which she surmised must lead to the other cabins. But it was what lay beyond that truly drew her eye: the deep, endless darkness of the forest. As she stared into the shadowy pines, swaying ever so slightly, hypnotically, in the breeze, she felt suddenly as though they were staring back. _Perhaps I've been in the forest too long._ She shook her head, and turned away from the large window toward the closet door.

The folding door was still slightly open from Daryl's sweep. She peeked inside the spacious closet and saw hanging within it all manner of garments. Most at first glance seemed to be ladies' dresses, colorful and bright. Summer dresses, most like, though there were some men's shirts and a jacket or two further down, she noted. There did not seem to be much warm clothing, however, and no ladies' coats or outerwear, she realized with disappointment. But then she spotted a grey cardigan hanging far toward the back, almost out of sight. She reached inside and removed it from its hanger, grinning with delight as she shrugged into it and felt its warmth envelop her.

The day may have been bright and sunny, but in the shade it was chilly indeed, and if even the slightest wind blew she felt it right in her bones. And oh, the fabric against her skin felt as soft as the velvet of a horse's muzzle. Sure, it was a bit loose in the bust area, but then most things were. The lady of the house obviously was a bit more…endowed in that particular region. Beth spared a quick, thankful thought to the woman—wherever she was now— for having left such a garment behind.

Stepping out from the closet, she twirled happily in her cozy new sweater. "Look what I found," she called to Daryl, who stood by the front window that overlooked the porch and the lake and forest beyond.

He glanced over her way, grunted something unintelligible, and then stared pointedly out the window again.

"Don't you wanna see if there's anythin' that might fit you?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"Suit yourself, then," she said.

Beth walked around the side of the bed, which looked all-too inviting, and paused beside the nightstand whereupon something caught her eye. There, in a gilded pewter picture frame, was the answer to her unspoken question: a photograph of a blushing, buxom bride with long, flowing brown locks standing proudly beside her groom, a tall man of about Daryl's age, Beth guessed, with short-cropped blond hair and a winning smile.

Her heart lurched, as sudden thoughts of Maggie and Glenn came to her—how they'd hadn't ever had a proper wedding, not that anyone had really expected them to, of course. The picture in Beth's hand was glossy and not yet faded by time, and even so it made her recall Glenn and that polaroid camera he'd been so excited to find, and the boyish grin on his face whenever he'd managed to sneak up and take a candid shot whenever you were least expecting. Suddenly, she could no longer bear to look, and she placed the photograph face-down upon the nightstand.

With a sigh, she sat down upon the edge of the large bed, and as she sunk into the softest mattress she'd felt in Lord-only-knew how long, all painful thoughts fled her mind. Perhaps it was just that she had not experienced a real bed in a long, long time, but the thing was ridiculously comfortable. She bounced up and down on it a few times, and then flopped herself down upon it.

Lying there on her back, looking up at the wooden log beams of the room's ceiling, the downy white comforter and pillows enveloped her completely, and she felt herself sinking further and further into the surface, until she was practically swimming in a sea of pure white. She slid her arms and legs against the covers, enjoying the feeling of gliding across the smooth material, like she was making a snow angel.

In front of the window Daryl paced ever so slightly, as though he were already itching to leave. _Maybe I can get him to relax, just for a moment._ Beth grinned over at him, feeling playful again. "So, Mr. Dixon. You gonna come over here, try it out?"

"Nah. Uh…I'm good." He stopped pacing for a moment, and stared pointedly out the window toward the lake.

"It's just—" and she wiggled back down into the covers "—I don't think I'll ever get up again. It's sucked me right in."

Something in Daryl seemed to snap then, and he turned his head and glared in her direction. "You done screwin' around yet, Greene?"

"No," she grinned over at him, snuggling further into the covers. "It's too comfy."

"Yeah, well, we still got a bunch of these to check out." Daryl gestured outside in the vague direction of the other houses. "For all we know, could be Crystal Lake out there."

"What?" Beth knew it had to be one of his movie references, but she couldn't for the life of her place it.

"You know, _Friday the 13th?_ "

But she was only half-paying attention, for the bed was so damn comfortable that she was already drifting off into a kind of dreamland. "That the one with Freddy Krueger?" she mumbled sleepily.

"No. That's _Nightmare on Elm Street_ ," Daryl said in exasperation.

"Oh." Beth sat up slightly and turned to face him, propping herself on her side with her elbow. "Well, you don't gotta be so grumpy about it. You know by now—I had to practically beg Shawn to let me watch those kinds of movies with him back in the day."

Daryl just grunted.

She lay back down again, flat on her back amongst the fluffy pillows, and met his gaze. "At the very least you gotta give me a hand."

Daryl stared at her as though she'd suggested he kiss a walker.

Beth smiled again and reached out a hand to him. "Come here."

"No, _you_ come here," he growled. And with what could only be described as a thunderous expression, he strode over to the bed, looming over her where she lay amidst the cushy down comforter and squashy pillows.

For a minute Beth thought he might actually flop down beside her, but he just stretched out his muscled arm, took her forcefully by the hand, and yanked her forward, lifting her bodily up off the bed in one strong movement. Beth thought her feet might've even left the ground for a spell, for she seemed to have floated to the ground in directly in front of him. She wiggled her nose; it was only an inch or so from his chest. She was aware of the pressure of his hand over hers, and she remained where she had landed, breathing deeply, looking up at him.

In the space of a pounding heartbeat, a flicker of uncertainty crossed Daryl's craggy features, and Beth could not help but notice. Standing here before her in this clean wooden room, all blood, sweat, and leather, he appeared more feral than ever. Beth had only wanted to make him feel more comfortable here, to help him relax. It had pained her to see this man, who had so eagerly followed her here to this place, now staring out the window like a creature planning his escape. This man who had never been on vacation.

An idea was already forming in her mind. But she would wait, and see—they would have to check out the rest of the place first, of course.

"Well," she spoke finally, looking up at her companion. "If all the houses have beds this comfy, I'm gonna have to try each of them and see for myself." She released his hand, poked him in the chest, and then turn and walked away from him. "You're missin' out, Mr. Dixon," she added over her shoulder, with a grin, as she strode out of the room.

Less than seconds later, she heard the heavy clomp of his boots upon the wooden floor of the narrow hallway as he closed the gap between them once more, and she smiled.

…

There were seven cabins in total, all of similar design and build—summer houses, Beth supposed, each with their own private dock. Each of the log houses were separated from the next by a patch of forest, and yet all were connected, not just by the lake itself but by the gravel driveway that ran behind the row of lodges along the edge of the dark pine forest beyond.

The small yards surrounding each house were all fairly overgrown, though not as much as some places Beth had seen. Wildflowers and vines, weeds and grass had all mingled together, but she could still tell that these had once been gardens. Grazed over by deer, no doubt, but not as much as she would have expected. It seemed, perhaps, that the folk who'd sheltered here had held out longer than most.

They had found the front doors of the second and third both locked—or jammed—and had climbed in through one of the front windows. The wrap-around porches on each of the similarly structured buildings made it quite easy to do so. As she had threatened to do earlier, Beth tried each of the beds in their turn. At this point she knew she was getting on Daryl's nerves, but she didn't care. Since when these days did anyone pass up a chance to try out a comfy bed? The man could always join her if he wished.

The fourth house seemed to have belonged to someone's grandma—Beth could not help but smile at the pastel décor, the doilies and lace, and the tacky ceramic kittens on the shelves. The bed and its mattress, however, was as hard and nearly as lumpy as one of the prison bunks. She felt sorry for grandma, or whichever poor soul'd had to sleep here. At least the kitchen was still stocked with herbs and spices, and Beth eagerly, gratefully stuffed a few jars of savory herbs into their pack.

The next two houses were much more similar to the first one they'd explored—rustic and well-decorated— though they lacked the softer touch of a woman's hand that she'd noticed in the first one. Instead, these seemed to be men's domains, for hunting and fishing. The second of these had mounted bass and trout on the walls and their false glass eyes seemed to glare angrily down upon them.

Daryl had leaned in to get a better look at one of the fish hanging on a plaque in the dim living room when it had, out of nowhere, burst into song, moving wildly back and forth. They swore, simultaneously raised their respective weapons, and jumped backward into each other. As they realized it was just a motion detector, they burst out laughing until their bellies ached. _A singing trout, how original,_ Beth had thought through her laughter. It was both surreal and wonderful at times, to be reminded of how oddly frivolous life had been, before the turn.

And yet, some frivolities were also practical. On one of the shelves in that cabin, Beth found two metal camping mugs, and a sealed tin of instant coffee—a rare find indeed. She could have cried with happiness, for they hadn't had coffee since the prison and a hot drink would surely be a welcome treat on the cold winter mornings to come.

Moving on to the lower cabinets, she opened them one by one. All seemed empty, and she nearly shut the last one in disappointment before she spied, far in the back, dusty corner, a lone can of peaches. It had been several days since they'd picked their last handfuls of wild blackberries in the forest. Summer was fading. These canned peaches would at least last a while longer than berries, and would certainly keep far better in their pack. Even so, she knew they needed to find more fruit, and soon.

By the time they had explored the first six cabins, their backpack overflowed with goodies. She herself was nearly bursting with delight. _We're gonna have to eat a whole bunch of this stuff right away just to make room._

That the houses were all un-raided and still somewhat stocked with food did not escape their notice, but Beth figured that, being summer houses, their owners may not have been permanent residents here. Perhaps they had left the winter before the turn and had simply…never come back. It was an all-too common story behind such abandoned houses, she knew. After all, there were no signs of a struggle here. _No walkers, either,_ she realized.

The seventh and final lodge stood somewhat apart from the others, and backed right up to the dark, endless stretch of forest that ran the rest of the way around the entirety of the lake. Even so, the design was much the same as the rest and they swept the house quickly, from the little living room and open kitchen to the hallway with doors leading to the bathroom and broom closets. There wasn't much of use in this one. After the bounties of the previous houses, they went straight for the kitchen cupboards only to find them bare. And yet, the house still had its furnishings and retained the same neat and tidy appearance of the others.

Daryl was still rifling through the bathroom drawers—looking for what, exactly, she knew not—when Beth moved quickly to peek into what she knew by now to be the bedroom. Making the customary knock, she waited a second, and then turned the handle. The door opened with a loud creak of its hinges, as though groaning in protest. Beth had no time to wonder if the door had protested against revealing the secrets within, for they soon revealed themselves.

She gasped at what lay before her.

She had expected another cozy, inviting bedroom, as in all the little houses they'd explored thus far, and had looked forward to flopping down upon yet another comfy bed. But this room was devoid of furniture, save for a rickety chair in one corner, and a spartan pallet on the floor beneath the back window. An odd set-up indeed, and one at heavy contrast to the rest of the immaculate, modern interior. But that was not the strangest thing about the room, not by a long-shot.

Still standing in the doorway of this room, her eyes swept the space before her and the little hairs on her arms stood on end. In the time since the turn, Beth had seen some memorable—if unsettling—sights, not in the least of which included writing on walls. Many houses they had stayed in during the long winter on the run after the farm had words scrawled upon their walls, left by the families that had lived—and died—there. In this case, it was not the presence of writing on the wall itself that was strange—it was the sheer quantity of it. For the entirety of each walls was covered in handwriting, from large capital lettering to tiny, minuscule scribbles, as though someone had spent many months, doing nothing but pouring out these words and phrases onto the surface of this wall. So packed with writing were the walls that they were almost too busy, too confusing to the eye to read.

And yet, painted in red letters, some of the writing stood out from the rest. With a flash of recognition, Beth knew the words for what they were: Scripture. Her eyes darted from quote to quote, from wall to wall, and she could not help but read each line, starting from the wall directly in front of her:

 _And I will show wonders in the heaves above  
and signs on the earth below:  
blood, fire, and vapor of smoke._

 _For wickedness burneth as the fire:  
it shall devour the briers and thorns,  
and shall kindle in the thickets of the forest,  
_ _and they shall mount up like the lifting up of smoke._

And finally, on the far wall, in big block capitals:

 _THE PEOPLE SHALL BE AS THE FUEL OF THE FIRE._

"Jesus." Daryl's voice was almost a growl, close to her ear. She hadn't even heard him come up behind her, and she jumped with a little gasp, startled. "Someone got bored," he added, and there it was, the familiar bite of his sarcasm.

"Yeah. I guess." Beth had to admit the discovery left her with a sense of unease. She wondered, vaguely, if the person who had written this had been here of their own choice, or if they had been held here against their will. _As a prisoner._ A coldness crept over her at the thought, and shuddered.

And yet…there was still no sign of anyone remaining here in this place, no sign of a struggle…and, importantly, no walkers. So what if it was not entirely untouched after all? Beth suspected there was no place in the world that had not felt at least a touch of madness, a hint of hell.

And, despite the strangeness of this one, disturbing room, the fact remained that this place was otherwise wholly abandoned. They had checked every house now, and found nothing. No one. Why should some writing, the likes of which they had encountered countless times before in abandoned places, scare them off after everything they had seen? Beth would not let this deter her from carrying out the idea that had been formulating in her mind…for she was determined to see it through, not so much for herself, but for _him_.

She rounded to face Daryl then, and his look was grim, unreadable, his eyes still focused on the room before him. She reached out gently, playfully, her fingers lightly tugging at his vest, and she pleaded with her eyes: _Let this go, please. We came so far, let's stay a little while. Have some fun. With me._

But she did not speak the words aloud. Instead she just nudged him again. "Come on," she said quietly. "Let's go."

Daryl tore his gaze from the room then, and looked down at her, to where her hand rested against the corner of his vest.

He seemed to take stock of her a moment before clearing his throat. "Yeah," he agreed. "Best leave this one be."

…

In the little garden behind the first cabin, Beth knelt in a patch of weeds and wildflowers, the earth cool and damp beneath her knees. The noonday sun hung high above in the cold, blue sky, beating down upon her back. Shielded from the chilly breezes by her new cozy grey sweater, she savored the feeling of its warmth and hummed to herself in contentment.

Daryl stood only just a few yards away beside the shed near the woodpile, where he had just finished splitting a couple logs for the fireplace. He was now bent over a sawhorse, working away at some long wooden planks he had found in the garden shed, sawing them into manageable sizes for boarding up the windows of the cabin.

It was funny, that. After they had returned from sweeping the rest of the houses, she hadn't even had to ask him—they had come to the same conclusion: to stay here for the night, at least. Daryl even seemed oddly… pleased. She supposed he must have seen that they might never find a place like this again. Perhaps even this most tireless man recognized that he could do with a rest once in a while.

They had settled upon the very first house they had found, and that choice too had been mutual and unspoken. The colorfully-decorated wooden lodge was the most natural, most welcoming, most homely of the cabins on the shore of the expansive lake. There had been no need to argue or discuss; they had only to look at one another upon returning to this place, and they knew.

Beth's initial impression that Daryl was uncomfortable here at this cabin seemed unfounded. For now that he had found a task to occupy his hands, he was settling, calming. Already she had experienced a strange sensation at times, moments when it almost seemed to her as though they had always been there. She was hardly forgetting the rest of their family; such a thing was impossible. But the feeling was there, hovering around her these days. It was as though it had always been the two of them alone like this, and that it might be thus evermore. The fact that such a thought was not unpleasant in and of itself disconcerted her.

Kneeling out here in the dirt of a once well-kept garden, now grown over with purple clover, fluffy-headed dandelions, and various tenacious weeds, Beth worked steadily towards the completion of her plan. She'd had an idea: to fix something different, something special for their supper tonight—a stew that she would make with the herbs and spices she'd found and the heaps of venison they still had left over.

Daryl had already helped her carry water from the cabin's miraculously still-working pump into the house, pour it into a cast iron pot, and hang it from a hook in the fireplace. Of course, Beth considered herself, farm-raised as she was and hardened by their time on the run, perfectly capable of completing such arduous tasks. And yet, she had to admit she was grateful to him for doing the heavy lifting in this case.

With the water waiting inside, ready to be boiled in its pot, she had only a few more herbs to gather and then she'd be able to put it all together. It was probably a bit early for supper, she supposed, but she had to occupy herself with _something_ , even when she knew she probably ought to take advantage of the peace and quiet and find some rest here.

Working out here in the garden, Beth knew she wasn't resting, not really. But compared to constantly running for her life, or being always slightly on edge out there in the forest, always wary and watching out of the corner of her eye, sitting out here, with her mind wholly occupied with the task of digging into the cool, fragrant earth, of gripping green, living, growing things… well, it was practically a holiday. A day from the old world.

She looked over toward the garden shed where her companion stood, sawing away at the wooden panels. Daryl seemed just as unable to keep still as she, but then the man was never able to rest or even remotely relax until he had made sure an area or building was as secure as possible. That he did this largely for her benefit and well-being was not lost on her.

Beth cast another glance upon him where he stood, observing the intense concentration upon his sun-browned face. She could sense a purposefulness there in his stance, his bearing. For a moment, she thought she witnessed a flash of how he'd been before, all those long months at the prison—non-stop working, always finding something that needed doing, fixing, mending, repairing. Someone that needed helping. _Does he ever take a break?_ she wondered.

Maybe it had always been thus, even back then. Maybe he was the one who'd held them all together, as though if he had stopped working, stopped protecting even just for one moment, they would have fallen apart at the seams. Or, perhaps, she thought, with a fresh pang of feeling for the man, it was simply that if he stopped working, _he_ would have fallen apart, fallen to his knees. Felt each new loss so deep inside it would have shaken him to his core, as it had in the end.

Beth remembered all-too well seeing the crack in his well-honed armor, the night he'd come home after that fateful run. How could she ever forget the moment he'd appeared there at her threshold as though seeking…what? Forgiveness? Absolution? Neither had been necessary. Zach had been a blow for them both, and Beth had done the only thing she could, and that was to give the man as much comfort as possible, to try to show him without words that she felt his pain as keenly as her own.

Little could she have known that night how soon fate would weave the fabric of their lives together, how deeply entwined they would be forced to live and exist. It was astonishing to her to realize that Daryl was now as close to her as anyone she had ever known in her life. Closer even. And so, in thinking back on that night, Beth felt an odd calmness, a sense of inevitability.

In the immediate aftermath, in those first numb, hopeless weeks, she had witnessed how the ultimate destruction of everything Daryl had worked to serve and protect had equaled a loss of life-purpose for him. How he had been adrift in an ocean of self-blame and grief. Oh, how he must have felt it, so keenly. The loss of the prison, and what he believed to be the demise of their people—their family—with it. _But we made it,_ Beth reminded herself. _We made it this far._ They had to cling to that. Cling together.

Beth reached down into a patch of bright cornflowers— _bachelor's buttons_ , her momma had called them, she remembered now. She reached down into that sea of flowers and picked a particularly deep blue specimen. Suddenly, she had the ridiculous notion that it matched the color of her companion's eyes. Shaking her head at her own fancifulness, she plucked a few more of the flowers to add to her growing bouquet of wild yellow daisies and little purple buds of ironweed.

As she continued picking through the patch of autumn wildflowers, she pondered the darkness that had threatened to swallow them both. And, in turn, the light that had brought them from the brink, that fire they had kindled together. Her hands worked away as though they had a life of their own, and so she nearly missed it there amidst the weeds and grass: a delicate little plant with tiny, dark green leaves. Thyme.

She hadn't thought to find it here, even in such a lovely place. The herb's scent wafted over her—an earthy, savory fragrance that held notes of both summer and autumn, of growth along with inevitable decay. With it came the intense, vivid feeling of her childhood. Of her mother kneeling beside her in a frilly apron teaching her how to use a spade, to dig in the garden beside the wrap-around porch of their beautiful farmhouse. And later, the same scent of wild thyme had emerged from garden at the prison. Beth recalled how one early summer day she had, in her turn, shown shy little Molly and sweet, curious Mika how to recognize and pick out the weeds from the herbs and vegetables.

Beth knew that such recollections should make her weep, that the wave of nostalgia ought to be too overwhelming. In times only recently gone by it would have been. But today was too bright, too beautiful, and so she let the past wash over her as a wave, let it instead augment the exquisite ache of the present.

A song, a hymn from the depths of her past came to her then in another flood of memory that in previous times would have threatened to overwhelm her, but today only soothed her. The sounds vibrated pleasingly in her throat, and for a moment she was standing up in church in her best Sunday dress, singing her heart out:

 _My life goes on in endless song_  
 _Above earth's lamentations_ ,  
 _I hear the real, though far-off hymn_  
 _That hails a new creation_.

 _Through all the tumult and the strife_  
 _I hear its music ringing,_  
 _It sounds an echo in my soul._  
 _How can I keep from singing?_

 _While though the tempest loudly roars_ ,  
 _I hear the truth, it liveth._  
 _And though the darkness 'round me close,_  
 _Songs in the night it giveth._

 _No storm can shake my inmost calm,_  
 _While to that rock I'm clinging._  
 _Since love is lord of heaven and earth_  
 _How can I keep from singing?_

 _When tyrants tremble in their fear_  
 _And hear their death knell ringing,_  
 _When friends rejoice both far and near_  
 _How can I keep from singing?_

 _In prison cell and dungeon vile_  
 _Our thoughts to them are winging,_  
 _When friends by shame are undefiled_  
 _How can I keep from singing?_

Still humming quietly, Beth carefully placed the herbs she'd gathered into one of the smaller pockets of their backpack where it rested beside her. The pack was roomier now that she'd emptied some of the contents into the kitchen and had put the rest of the venison into the stew pot, ready to be heated for their evening meal. She continued to work steadily, and after picking few more brightly-colored wildflowers, she wrapped the little bouquet with a small length of wire. _They'll look real nice on the table,_ she thought with a smile.

Finished with this part of her task, she rose and brushed dry grass and dirt off her jeans. Shouldering the pack, she walked toward a strange tree she'd noticed in the middle of the yard and approached it curiously, drawn to it somehow. She glanced upward into its twisting branches, still thick with leaves, and saw flashes of pink and red amidst the green. _Can it truly be…?_ she nearly gasped aloud.

It had been so long since she had seen fresh orchard apples, she could scarcely believe her eyes. She blinked, still not certain she was seeing true, that the sheer _wanting_ had not somehow overwhelmed her senses. Perhaps they were but wild crab apples, sour and mealy and sure to give anyone foolish enough to eat them raw the worst kind of bellyache. She had to find a way to be sure. Daryl was still by the shed and woodpile—she could hear him sawing away—and she didn't dare get his hopes up for nothing. She would take a closer look herself.

The tree was just tall enough that she could pass beneath its branches without them catching upon her hair, and there, beneath a low hanging limb was a rusty metal step ladder. She tested it with her boot before putting her full weight upon it; it seemed to hold just fine.

Up close, Beth could see that most of the apples from the lower branches had already fallen to the ground where they lay amongst dry, crisp leaves at the tree's roots, rotting and crawling with worms. But in the upper branches, the dark pink, sun-ripened fruit still hung, tempting and perfect, just beyond reach.

Her heart leaped, a thrum of excitement in her chest. It was as she had thought. As she had hoped.

As she stepped up, the ladder creaked and protested even beneath her slight frame, and yet it held. Beth steadied herself, gained her balance, and stood on her tip-toes. She even tried to lift herself up, to climb up onto the branch to get a better shot, but to no avail—she could not reach even the lowest hanging apple.

It was then that she realized the sounds of sawing had ceased, and while the branches blocked her view, she heard the crunch of leaves and dry grass beneath heavy boots. And then he was there, standing half in the sunlight and halfway beneath the shade of the apple tree. She had to smile, to see that he had brought his weapon for whatever task he'd come to perform.

Daryl's hand rested upon the bow strap across his chest, and its bolts peeked out from behind his shoulder. As he moved a step toward where she stood precariously upon the ladder, the dark tangles of his hair shone half-bronzed in the sun, and in that moment he seemed a wild outlaw stepping out of a tale, arriving just in time to claim golden arrow and fair maid alike.

Just in time, to win a kiss.

He turned his head up toward where she had perched herself like some bird upon the ladder, and she saw herself through his eyes, then—her arms like outstretched wings, her belly a pale expanse peeking out from underneath her blood-stained shirt. She saw the concern upon his craggy features, saw the flicker of something like momentary panic as he considered that she might take flight and leave him alone upon the earth.

 _"You're gonna be the last man standing."_

The memory of her words reverberated through the space between them, echoed through time, and suddenly she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze.

She could not, would not leave him alone down there another second. She had made only a slight, subtle movement to step down from the ladder, when Daryl's eyes met hers and locked her into place. In a heartbeat he was just beneath where she stood, reaching up with a bare, muscled arm to take her hand in his own. As she let him guide her down to earth, to the ground in front of him, not for the first time that day did Beth feel as though she were floating.

Standing before her companion, her hand still held within his, she looked up into his questioning face. "Pink ladies," she said. As if that, somehow, explained everything.

Daryl shot her another quizzical look through a lock of dark hair. He glanced downward then, at where his hand still remained enclosed over hers, and she felt him release her suddenly from his grip.

"My favorite," she added, still looking up at him, and she wondered if her face wasn't as pink as one of those apples.

He smiled faintly at that. "Can't reach 'em, huh?" But he did not wait for her answer; he was already moving past her as he spoke, and his words gusted over her, their rough warmth at odds with the cool breeze from the lake.

"Guess my arms aren't long enough," she shrugged, trying to make it seem like it was not such a big deal, after all. But it _was_ , pink ladies or no. Fruit was fruit, no matter the kind, and only a fool would pass up fresh, edible apples. Only a fool would overlook the generous offerings of this bountiful season before the leanness of winter fell upon them.

"Hmm," he grunted. "Let me." As he spoke, he was already stepping onto the ladder, which creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.

"Careful," she called up to him, as though this were the most dangerous thing she'd ever seen him do.

Daryl paused, looking down at her with an odd smirk. He adjusted the strap of his bow, then and for a single, surreal moment, Beth thought he really was about to shoot an apple down for her. _Like he's some kind of Robin Hood._ But then he was reaching upward, his long arms disappearing momentarily into the branches, and soon he was handing her apple after apple. Grinning, Beth plopped them one by one into their backpack. _More treats to save for later. Can today get any better?_

Finally, Daryl leaped down from the ladder and stood before her. "Here," he said. And in his hand was an especially ripe apple, of a pink so deep it was almost red. "Last one I could reach." He rubbed it carefully on his shirt, and handed it to her.

She accepted the apple with a smile. It was an oddly tentative gesture and she felt something deep inside her stir at this simple, yet meaningful gift. "Thank you," was all she could manage.

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Daryl cleared his throat. "Ain't nothin'."

Beth bit into the large, dark pink apple, and let its fragrant, almost floral sweetness linger on her tastebuds. She closed her eyes. It was the single most heavenly thing she had ever eaten, and she could not prevent herself from expressing her pleasure aloud. "Mmm, _so_ good."

Daryl made a noise, deep in his throat, a half cough, half growl. "Best give me a taste, then."

" _What?_ " She looked at him, incredulous, her mouth full of apple. Maybe she hadn't heard him right.

"You heard me, Greene," he said, not without humor, though as he narrowed the gap between them so that he was standing almost face to face with her, she shivered. Not out of fear, but at the command in his tone.

Normally, she would defy her companion, tease him, or, hell, flip him off and run laughing from him, but in that moment she found herself obedient, pliant, raising the apple up to his lips. "Yes, Mr. Dixon," she whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes then, and he seemed, for the briefest moment, taken aback by how easily she had given in to his request. His… demand. But then, eyes locked with hers, he bit down, hard. His canines flashed and she watched transfixed as they sunk into the waiting flesh. As the juice ran down the side of his mouth into the stubbly beard on his chin she let out the faintest sigh. Perhaps he might have heard, if anything could still be heard over the beating of her heart. She thought wildly that perhaps he could read her mind, could see within it the strange urge to lean forward, close the space, and lick the sweetness from his lips.

 _What the hell is wrong with you?_ she chided herself. And yet, it was too late; her breath had quickened as though Daryl had just chased her through the forest in one of their games. She stepped backward away from him, apple still held out in her hand. An offering.

"Here," she said, scrunching her nose at him. "You keep it."

He grinned wolfishly this time, and she heard the crunch as he took another bite of the juicy fruit, straight from her grasp. "Pink ladies, huh?" he muttered through a mouthful. "Damn good."

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her dumbstruck beneath the shade of the apple tree.

Beth stood for a time rooted to the spot, watching after him as he made his way back toward the woodpile. Almost against her will, her eyes followed him, drawn to the bobbing of the crossbow slung over his shoulder, the way the wings of his vest seemed to shift and move as he walked. With a thumping heart she realized her mouth still hung open, lips parted with the ragged breathlessness of one left wanting.

She lowered her hand, the thrice-bitten apple hanging limply at her side. Its sticky sweetness ran downward over the tips of her fingers and dripped onto the fallen fruit that lay, dead and decaying, amongst the leaves at her feet.

…

She was in the kitchen when he came for her.

Daryl had been in and out of the lodge all afternoon. He'd boarded up the back windows where there was no place to string the alarm cans, and had gone back outside for a spell. To do what, she had no idea.

Beth had just finished readying the ingredients to be placed in the stewpot, and was standing over the table humming to herself, arranging the wildflowers she'd picked in a glass vase in the center of the table, when he came bursting through the screen door in a gust of wind.

Immediately, her hand went to her little knife, still in its sheath at her belt, and she had it out and ready in a flash as he entered the cabin.

Daryl was covered in sweat from all that chopping and was breathing hard, but he had a grin on his face, which widened all the more when he saw her knife. "Someone's jumpy today."

Beth just glared at him. "You enjoy scarin' the shit out of me or somethin'?"

Daryl flashed another grin her way. "Maybe if you weren't messin' around, you'da heard me comin'," he teased. "Now, leave that. Let's go."

"What?" _Are we leavin' already?_ she wondered, mystified at his sudden change of mind. "Where're we-?"

"I'll show you." When she didn't immediately move from behind the table, he strode over to her. "Come on, Greene."

And with that, his hand clamped tightly around her wrist, she had no choice but to abandon her work. Supper could wait, she supposed. The day was only half done, and she had never seen Daryl like this before.

As they flew out the door, the screen banging behind them, Beth almost expected to discover he was taking her to see something gross or creepy, like Shawn used to do when they were kids. _"Beth-y,"_ her brother would say in a sing-song voice, underscored with a charming smile. _"Come look 'n see what I found."_ And each time she would go, trusting him even though she knew better, and he'd take her to look at some dead critter he'd found behind the barn, crawling with worms. "Eeww," she'd shriek and sprint back to the house. Shawn would just slap his thigh and guffaw. Depending on her mood, sometimes she would punch him first and then turn tail and run for her life.

Bemused, Beth wondered if she'd have to punch Daryl for this. And yet, as with Shawn, the boyish grin on her companion's face had silenced any protests or resistance. After ducking quickly beneath the string of cans across the porch entrance, she soon found herself careening down the flight of wooden stairs behind him towards the dock.

She had barely time to catch her breath as they reached the dock, their boots pounding together upon its wooden planks. She looked down the length of the pier and saw the little rowboat that she had spotted earlier, bobbing gently in the water. As they approached, she noticed that the boat held within its hull not just the usual flotation device, but also what appeared to be fishing gear, including a rod and tackle box.

"What…how?" She looked up at him in wonder.

Daryl gestured toward the boat with his boot, his hands in his pockets. "Found the rod in the shed. Snuck the tackle out of one of those cabins back there. Thought we could go…uh…" he trailed off, and his brash confidence of only seconds before seemed to waver, as though he'd gone suddenly shy.

"Fishin'?" she offered.

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. The little smirk returned to his lips then and he looked over at her, and offered his hand. "Thought we could go fishin'."

"I'd like that," Beth smiled at him, and at her words she could have sworn his stance shifted, his chest somehow held more proudly, as though he were more pleased than he could ever let on.

As he helped her step into the boat and made sure she was sitting down safely before clambering in beside her, it dawned on her. Apparently, they'd had the same idea all day long: each to do something for the other. Beth had been planning to make Daryl something special for their supper. That he in his turn had wanted to do something similar for her did not surprise her so much as make her heart flutter wildly within her breast.

At this rate, they'd have enough food for many weeks' worth of vacations. Beth found she did not mind that thought at all.

…

The sun shone warm against her cheek, keeping the chill of the breeze at bay. Eyes half-closed, Beth rested her head against the inner edge of the boat's prow, her legs stretched out across from Daryl, who sat holding the fishing rod steadily, enjoying the quiet of the lake and the surrounding forest. Enjoying their vacation.

As the rowboat swayed gently beneath her, water lapping against its side in a rhythmic lullaby, she thought she might drift off to sleep. Eyes still half-mast, she let her hand dangle just above the surface, fingers dipping just barely into the water. Cool, primal, elemental.

Here in this boat, floating between water and sky, surrounded by the forest, basking in the afternoon sun, she thought she could have remained here for an eternity, cradled in its womb-like embrace. Here, she would never know that the world had turned all around her. Here, she could imagine that life had reset itself and was, as it had been, at the beginning of time.

Carried by the gentlest of waves, they had by that time drifted silently out into the middle of the lake. Beth had taken off her boots and socks and had rolled up her jeans—never mind that her legs were covered in pale downy hair she'd not shaved in ages. It was nothing Daryl hadn't seen before. She thought of the times they'd had to bathe or wash in creeks or streams out there in the woods, rushing to beat the swarming mosquitoes in the heat of summer. And later, rushing to beat the chill that now laced the air. The few times they had risked it, they'd had to strip down almost in front of one another—for safety if nothing else.

Like the morning after the moonshine, when Daryl had glimpsed her half-naked and shirtless, such moments had become inevitable. Beth had once, by sheer accident, peeked while her companion had begun to strip down and had to suppress a giggle at the flash of his naked, lily-white bottom, a stark contrast to his sun-tanned chest and arms. Not an image she'd forget anytime soon, either, she recalled with a small, secret smile. It had taken all she had not to tease him about, for then he'd have known she'd been spying on him. She wasn't sure that was a secret she was ready to reveal to him any time soon.

Later, it had occurred to her that perhaps, now and then, Daryl might have peered through the underbrush while keeping watch for her. Just to check she was alright, of course. And like the morning of that blinding hangover, she'd found that the thought did not disturb her as much as it perhaps should. _Let him look,_ she would think to herself, _not like there's much to see anyway._

And so, out there in that boat, Beth had rolled up her jeans without much thought or hesitation, exposing her own pale flesh to the afternoon sun. She wiggled her toes happily, periodically dipping them into the cold waters of the lake until Daryl muttered that she was scaring the fish.

She stuck out her tongue at him through bared teeth. "Maybe fish like my toes," she said airily, extending her leg out in front of her and wriggling her bare toes in Daryl's face. He looked for a moment like he might just take the bait himself, and bite.

Instead, he just grunted.

Defiantly, Beth lowered her foot back into the water.

Daryl glared at her, blue eyes narrowed into wolfish slants. Staring him right in the face, Beth dipped her toes into the water one more time, and then brought her foot back up and splashed him right in the face.

"You're lucky I got this," he growled through dripping hair, motioning to the rod in his hand, "or I'd get you for that."

"Sure," she said, grinning.

"Mmph." He just glared at her again, but she thought she spied the now-familiar quirk returning to the corner of his mouth.

"Oh come on. Don't be such a grump." She smiled at him. "You're the one that wanted to go fishin'. Don't tell me you're not enjoyin' your vacation, _Mr. Dixon._ " He didn't reply, but she continued boldly nonetheless. "What? You said you never been on vacation before." She smiled at him and, spreading her arms out wide, gestured to the scene of perfect serenity around them. "Well, what do you think?"

"Pfft, fishin's just what you do when you got time to wait around for somethin' to eat."

 _Ok, fine, he's gonna be difficult about this._ "I don't mean just fishin'," she explained patiently. "I mean all of it. The cabins, the lake. Relaxin' together. It's just like how I remember." Daryl looked at her for a long moment, and she wondered if she should change the subject. Instead she pressed on. "Ever seen _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_?"

"Seven _huh_?"

"Guess not, then," she grinned. "It's just, there was this one time we went to this cabin. My family. All of us, in one little cabin. It was sorta like this place, only way more rustic. No tv channels, sink didn't work, fridge was broken. Sorta like nowadays, really." She laughed, and saw Daryl looking at her intently, so she continued on. "We were just kids then, me, Maggie, and Shawn. We didn't appreciate everythin' we had back then. Before, well, you know." She paused a minute, remembering.

Daryl had leaned forward, listening closely. He'd even lowered the fishing rod, as if he'd momentarily forgotten all about it. "Go on," he urged.

"Well, it was raining almost the whole time we were on vacation and we were gettin' _so_ bored. The only movie in the whole place was this ancient video-cassette tape of _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers._ We must've watched it a hundred times. At least, I did. By the time we went home, I knew all the songs by heart. My favorite was the part when brothers pine for their ladies while singin' and choppin' wood."

Daryl raised an eyebrow and smirked; he seemed especially amused at that.

"Sure you never seen it?" she asked him again.

He snorted. "Think I woulda remembered singin' lumberjacks."

"I know, it sounds pretty stupid," she admitted. "But it was from the '50s, ok?"

"Alright then, tell me more."

"You really wanna know?" Beth had thought he'd just been humoring her.

"You know how this works, Greene. Can't just dangle a plot in front of a man like that and expect him not to bite."

"Okay then. A family of backwoodsmen—seven brothers—fall in love with some fancy ladies from the town down the mountain. But they're already betrothed to some rich, upstanding fellas. So, the brothers decide to steal the ladies for themselves. And then there's an avalanche and they end up keepin' them up in the mountains all winter long. 'Course, the ladies fall in love with them and they all get married come spring." Beth found herself blushing for describing it all out loud. "It's real silly, but I used to sing the songs from it all the time. Maggie got _so_ annoyed. I'd make Shawn sing the 'Lonesome Hound Dog' song—that's what it was called I think—with me whenever it came to that part."

"You'd make him, huh?"

"Yeah, I did," she grinned. "But I like to think he secretly enjoyed it. Or maybe he just liked makin' me laugh. I dunno," Beth shrugged.

"Maybe you could sing it, sometime," Daryl said quietly, and he seemed oddly serious.

Beth's chest tightened strangely. _Is he teasin' me or what?_ She could never be sure these days. "Oh. Um… well, like I said…it's kinda stupid."

And suddenly, she found that she could no longer go on in this vein. She had felt her brother's presence keenly today in this place, and as her throat constricted tightly, she knew she would not be able to sing in that moment even if she'd tried.

Daryl was still watching her expectantly, waiting for her response. She met his eye, and forced herself to smile once more, and then she went quiet.

 _Best keep my mouth shut_ , she thought, _and let him get on with his fishin'_.

…

As they drifted even further across the lake in silence, Beth pondered what Daryl had said. That fishing was just about getting something to eat. Perhaps for him it that's all it had even been, and yet…the thought had left her with a strange sense of sorrow. It distressed her to think of the want, and the desperate _need_ that must have been his life before all this.

Of course, the prospect of freshly-caught fish was certainly enticing, and would make a welcome change from the lean game meat, however tasty fresh venison could be. She could hardly recall the last time she'd tasted fresh fish. It had been so long. Years even. She wondered if it had been as long for him. Her curiosity got the better of her then, and while she knew by now not to pry too much into Daryl's _before_ , she had to ask nonetheless. Such an innocuous subject, surely, what could it hurt?

"How long's it been, anyway." Her small voice broke into the silence and then seemed to dissipate across the expanse of water around them. "I mean, since you had a fish fry."

Daryl looked up from the rod he was holding steady, and squinted at her, shrugging. "I'unno. A while. Year or two, I guess. Why?"

Beth shrugged. "Just wonderin'." She thought back and realized it must have been just as long for her if not longer for her as well. "Last time I had fish like this, Otis caught it from our neighbor's stocked pond. My mom and Patricia fried it up real nice, breaded with herbs and fresh lemons squeezed over top. We had it with taters slathered in butter. Tasted like summer."

"Sounds like she was a real good cook," Daryl said quietly. "Your mom."

"She was," Beth said.

"You miss her."

Beth swallowed hard, and nodded. She couldn't believe it, after all this time, after everything else that had happened since, and yet…it was the truth. _There are pieces missin' from us all,_ she thought. _And always will be._

Daryl looked at her, and then down at the rod in his hand. Then he offered it to her. "You wanna?"

She knew what he was doing and she was grateful for it. "Yeah, sure. Thanks." She took the fishing rod from his grasp and adjusted her seat in the boat to get a better angle.

"Might be you'll have better luck," he said.

"Maybe," she smiled. She was curious still, and she had to ask him: "So, where was it, then?"

"Where was what?"

"You know, your last fish fry."

"Oh, that." He paused for a second, perhaps remembering, or perhaps deciding how much he wanted to tell her. "That first camp, outside of Atlanta. It was—" he paused, cleared his throat "—the night we were attacked. By walkers. First time I'd ever seen it happen like that. The night Amy—Andrea's sister—died."

"Oh." She hadn't thought this particular story would be so…dire. She recalled Andrea, the striking blond woman she'd known for only a brief span, but who'd made a lasting impression on her nonetheless. Beth would never forget what she'd told her, all that time ago. _"You have to make room for it,"_ she'd said. Immersed as she'd been in her own fresh grief and despair at the time, Beth hadn't fully understood how much pain the woman herself might have been in. She had never really known the story of Andrea's sister.

"What was she like?" she asked Daryl. "Amy, I mean."

He shrugged. "Ain't like I knew her at all. But, uh…she seemed sweet, I guess. Real sweet." He paused a moment, and there was a little rueful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Merle always did have a thing for blondes," he added, looking her straight in the eye.

Beth fiddled once more with the fishing rod in her hand. Absurdly, she felt herself blushing. _And what about you, Mr. Dixon?_ she wanted to ask him.

A second later she wondered if she had, in fact, said the words aloud, for he continued. "Oh, Merle had his eye on Andrea, always did. He did try to hint that I, uh, you now. Give her sister—Amy, I mean—a closer _look_. But I told him _hell no_. I mean, Jesus. She was only sixteen or somethin'."

Beth remembered being sixteen, once. Remembered the day they had all arrived, the rest of Rick's group. She'd been piling stones for Otis' cairn when she'd heard it, that very first time. The thunder of Daryl's Charger coming up the long drive to her daddy's farm.

Yes, sixteen seemed a lifetime ago. A lifetime that Amy had never had. And suddenly, Beth's heart bled for this unknown girl. This girl who had been gutted, a fate she had so long feared for herself. This girl who had had died the year the world had turned. The year Beth had decided to live.

And live she had. She had survived, and was now facing her third winter since the turn, and far too much had been lost and learned. No, if anything approaching innocence had remained in her after the farm, it had surely died back there in that prison with her father. Had fled when she'd seen the bloody remains on those tracks. When she'd understood that, like innocence, some things once lost, stay lost forever.

"…'Course, I told him what I thought of _that._ " Daryl went on, and Beth wrenched herself back to the present to listen. "But Merle kept sayin', _'Don't matter, little brother, it's the end of the world. Best get us all the tail we can while it lasts."_ Really riled me up. But then he always knew just what to say to get me goin'." Daryl must have seen the look on Beth's face then, for he clarified: "Oh, Merle just talked like that, he'd never have…I kept an eye on him, you know?" Beth nodded, and he continued. "Made sure he stayed clear of the camp when he was wasted or high. Made sure he didn't do nothin' stupid. But the night camp was attacked…Merle was gone by then. When it happened, we were all eatin', talkin'… _relaxin_ '. Amy, she…she didn't make it. Andrea pulled the trigger herself, to finish it, that morning. Her own kid sister. It's what made her like how she was, when you met her. Seems she tried to opt out, back at that place. The CDC. But Dale, he… he had somethin' to say about _that._ Stopped her. Got her out. I'unno," he shrugged, "guess she must'a resented that."

Beth had listened to him finish the story with rapt attention. It was, perhaps, the most he'd spoken about the past in a long time—since the night of the moonshine, at least. "Dale …he's the one who…you had to…the night my—the night the farm…?" she trailed off. So many dead, so many gone for so long, so many names never spoken of again. She wanted to be sure.

Daryl looked down for a moment, cleared his throat. "That was him."

She nodded, understanding. It was then she had a flash of memory: Andrea, in her bedroom back at the farm. Andrea, handing her a sharp kitchen knife with an all-too knowing look. She imagined Maggie having to pull the trigger on her, if she ever turned, and she felt a surge of sorrow for the woman. How she wished their time had not been cut so short.

"It was real good of you," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Protectin' them, like that." _Like you protect me_ , she thought, _even if I don't always need it._

"Not much good it did, in the end," Daryl muttered.

"Sure it did," Beth insisted. "Bet they would've been grateful, if they'd known."

Daryl went deathly silent for a long moment, and Beth wondered what she'd said wrong. And then he drew a shuddering breath and spoke: "Ain't never told anyone this, but…" he started, then halted just as quick, as if speaking this out loud were a great effort. "Merle was plannin' to rob that camp blind. Said they was all just sittin' ducks, ripe for pluckin'." He hung his head, as though the revelation were too weighty to bear. "And I would've gone right along with it."

Beth took a deep breath of her own. "But you _didn't_."

He shrugged. "Only 'cause Merle was long gone."

Beth considered for a moment. "Would you have gone along with it, if he hadn't disappeared in Atlanta?"

He didn't look at her, "I'unno. Maybe."

She looked at Daryl, long and hard, scarcely believing that he could think such a thing of himself. _"That's bullshit!"_ she wanted to shout at him. But she calmed herself, softened her gaze, and spoke again: "Maybe I didn't know you back then—" and she knew she was probably wading into waters that were over her head, but she continued "—but I saw how you were. At my…at the farm. Hanging back, trying to stay out on the edge. Apart. But even then, you were no…thief. Even then, you were… helpin' folk. Providin'. Huntin'. Scavengin', sure. That winter on the run…I only ever saw you take what you needed from the dead, not the livin'. Just like now."

Daryl went quiet as her words flooded over him. Beth fiddled with the reel on the rod for a moment, thinking that maybe her luck wasn't all that great either.

She chanced another glance at her companion, but his face was unreadable. "'Sides," she added, "you just told me how you kept an eye on Merle, back at that camp. And at the prison, even after he came back, I saw. You didn't let him boss you around. So all I'm sayin' is…I think you would have stood up to him back then, too."

"Is that what you think?" he asked.

"Hell yeah, that's what I think," she said, looking straight at him.

He lowered his eyes then, and seemed to look anywhere but her.

Whatever he insisted, Beth was not fazed. If there ever had been a Daryl Dixon who would have gone along with Merle's plan, then he was long-gone, a ghost at the edge of memory. For the man before her was the only Daryl Dixon she knew, the only one that mattered, and he had never taken, not from the living at least. No, he'd spent the last years, and months, and weeks, giving more than any man she'd ever known—other than perhaps her own father—had ever given of himself.

Beth took a deep breath and spoke again. Gently, this time. "You gotta stay who you are, remember?"

When Daryl still didn't meet her eye, she leaned forward, standing up slightly in the boat. It took her a moment to gain her balance, and she reached out with her free hand to touch his broad shoulder. "Hey," she said, softly, smiling down at him. He looked up at her, met her gaze, and nearly stole her breath away. For his eyes held the reflection of the autumn blue sky, and something else… the spark of a secret fire. "You told me I had to keep on remindin' you sometimes," she said, her voice breathless, nearly a whisper.

"Yeah," he rasped, "guess I did."

Just then, Beth felt a strong tug on line, so strong the rod nearly slipped out of her grasp. "Think I got somethin'!" she exclaimed. The boat swayed under her, for a moment. "Oof," she giggled, putting a hand on Daryl's shoulder to steady herself.

"Careful, Beth," Daryl said, serious. He motioned for her to get down. "You best sit—"

There was a sudden, loud _thunk_ , and the rowboat swayed violently. All Beth could think was that they must've hit a rock, and then she felt herself pulled strongly forward, too far. A second later she was toppling over the side, slipping beyond Daryl's grasp, and everything was cold, and dark, and wet. Her companion's muffled shout was a faint cry above her as she plunged down, down into the icy blackness.

Immediately, she struggled for air and tried desperately to swim back toward the surface. But she was disoriented, and the cold water was swiftly filling her nostrils.

As she floundered below the surface in her struggle to right herself, she bumped into something—something colder even than the water itself—and felt another object brush against her bare arms. _Fish? Seaweed?_ Beth began to panic then, for she couldn't tell which way was up and which way was down. Finally, she forced herself to open her eyes so she could find her way back up toward the light glinting there above the waves. The lake water might have been fresh but it stung her eyes all the same.

And then she saw them.

Suspended around and above her, like some horror-version of a puppet show, floated a dozen or so naked, bloated bodies. They bobbed together in a slow mockery of a dance around her. One bumped against her shoulder, and a shriek gurgled out of her mouth before she realized…they weren't moving. Not of their own accord. _Dead. They're all dead._ As a drowned figure floated close to her face, she looked into clouded, milky, unseeing eyes. Long waves of brown hair rippled past, like someone's twisted idea of a mermaid. As the dead woman floated toward the surface, Beth could see a gaping slit in her throat, like it had been cut, sliced open, by a knife.

Long ago, in another lifetime, Beth would have fainted from the sight. Would have just let go, let herself be swallowed by the dark waters. Would have given up the struggle to breathe and joined the bodies there in that cold abyss. Now, she summoned what remaining strength she had left in her near-frozen limbs to drive herself back toward the surface.

Something floated above her, just out of reach. Something orange-red and white. The buoy. With the last of her strength she stretched her leaden arms toward it, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut again as she reached through the mass of bloated bodies, that pale cloud in the dark water. As she moved through them, she had to pretend she did not feel their clammy skin, cold, so cold, upon her own.

Dragged upward, she broke through the surface once more, sputtering, gasping for air and blinking in the light. And she felt warm, living hands upon her arms then, gripping, pulling. She thudded onto the wooden seat of the boat, knees and elbows knocking against the hull. Daryl had thrown the lifesaver, had hauled her back into the boat—her companion had once more come to her aid in that last, terrifying moment when her strength had had all but fled.

He sat before her now in the boat, which still swayed and rocked precariously beneath them. Teeth chattering, stomach lurching, Beth thought she might be sick.

"Dead…in the water," she sputtered.

"I saw 'em. Rocked the whole damn boat. Nearly had me over with it. They didn't—? They ain't…movin'?" The words poured out of him as though he could not ascertain her safety fast enough.

Beth shook her head, still struggling to regain her breath. "No, they're…dead. _Really_ dead. Still, and just…floatin'."

She coughed up some of the lake water then—she hadn't even realized she'd inhaled it— and doubled over. Daryl's hands closed immediately around her shoulders, holding her steady. When the coughing fit passed, he reached into his back pocket and handed her his red handkerchief.

Hunched over in the middle of the boat, Beth dabbed at her mouth, as drops of saltwater threatened to spill from her eyes…a delayed reaction, or shock, perhaps. Drenched even as she was, she suddenly felt Daryl's strong arms close around her, folding her carefully against him.

She allowed herself to lean into the sun-warmed heat of his chest for a long moment, eyes closed, still shivering and shuddering and gasping for breath, until she realized she was soaking him through as well. "Oh, I'm gettin' you all wet!" she cried.

Daryl shrugged beneath her, his leather vest creaking against her cheek. "Since when did you care about _that?_ " he spoke into her dripping hair. "Sure you ain't… _hurt_?" The word came choking out of him.

Beth nodded. Letting go of him slowly, she sat up in the boat, still shaky and feeling like if she made one wrong move she'd topple over into the water again, and be confronted once more with the dead, bloated faces below the ripples.

"What the hell is this place, anyway?" she asked aloud, though of course she didn't expect Daryl to know the answer. For who could imagine such a thing? "Someone…someone had to 've put them there…right? But they finished it. Made sure they didn't turn."

Daryl nodded, and he wore a dangerous expression. "Someone put 'em in there, all right. Slit their throats, drained their blood right into the lake."

 _Like we bled the deer,_ Beth thought. _Like they were…prey_. "Who'd do that? And why?" and her voice shook now, not with terror, but anger.

"Whoever it was, might still be around. These ain't been here but a few days, at most," Daryl replied. Beth swallowed, and shivered. "Come on," he said more gently then, seeing the expression on her face.

"I—I dropped the f-fishin' rod," she stuttered.

"Don't matter," Daryl rasped. "We ain't eatin' no fish from this lake." And with that, he took hold of the oars where they rested in the oarlocks. With a grunt and a heave he began to row them steadily back across the lake's expanse toward the dock.

Beth sat at the bow with her arms wrapped around herself, drenched and shivering. The breeze that had felt so refreshing only a little while ago now sliced right through her, a merciless, icy knife. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. Aside from the swath their boat cut through the water, the lake appeared as still and peaceful as before, the water a deep blue, reflecting the afternoon sky and the surrounding trees. What floated there, just below the glassy surface told another, darker story.

Now that Beth had recovered from the sheer fright of near-drowning, she realized that she shouldn't be surprised, not really. She had seen what men could do. But this was… something else. Uncanny. Strange even for the upside-down world they now dwelt in. Who could know what had really happened here? An execution, perhaps. Or something else entirely. She recalled the other cabin then, with its the strange verses painted in red on the walls, and she shuddered.

Even through her horror, Beth knew she could not—must not—let such thoughts pull her back under, take her back down into a place even darker than that watery grave. And so she kept her eyes fixed on the man before her, upon the strength in his arms, upon his face—a grimace of concentration—as he rowed her, still shivering and with teeth clattering, back to the dock.

It was only when he helped her out of the boat, when she stood shakily upon the wooden planks, water dripping from her soaked jeans, patting herself down, that she realized: her diary was missing from its usual, snug place in her back pocket. She looked frantically into the bottom of the hull, hoping beyond hope, but it was nowhere to be seen. With a deep sadness which surely outweighed the significance of such a small thing, she could only conclude that it must have fallen out when she'd fallen in, and that it was even now floating out there amongst the dead. Sudden tears stung her eyes, but she would not weep.

Carrying her boots in one hand, she made her way carefully back up the long flight of wooden stairs. With her free hand she clung to Daryl's proffered arm, while he muttered something about getting her out of her wet things, and soon. She could only nod, and pretend she understood anything other than the swirling darkness that had reached up and threatened to drag her back down into its depths. That darkness which had begun to close in around her, oppressive and suffocating as any tomb.

Beth wondered now at her conceit, to think that she could laugh at the end of the world.

…

* * *

 **A/N:** It was only _after_ I had written a certain scene that I found the following quote from Norman Reedus on Daryl's growing feelings for Beth, and I could not believe how fitting it was:

" _It's being...lost in the woods for miles and miles and starving and finding an apple tree with an apple on it, you know? It's like, there's something good out there, and maybe that's you."_

* * *

 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	6. Over the Lake pt II

"I wish I could just…change."  
 _"You did."_  
"Not enough. Not like you. It's like you were made for how things are now."  
\- 'Still'

…

Since the turn, and even since the prison, Beth had experienced certain moments, hours, or even entire days that might pass without a single sign or reminder of the hell that had consumed their world.

Today was not one of those days.

Wrapped in a rough woolen blanket of green-and-brown tartan, Beth sat on the rug on the hard floor of the cabin in front of the fireplace, poking at the coals, still shaking with the chill despite herself.

She had decided to resume fixing the venison stew she'd started earlier, figuring they could both do with a hot meal after all, now more than ever. Not to mention she needed something to occupy herself while her clothing dried.

On the little grate beside the fireplace she'd hung up everything she'd been wearing, every last garment, from her yellow t-shirt to the grey sweater she'd only just found. All were soaked through, even her underwear. Removing her tight jeans had taken some effort—she had been rushing, trying to wriggle her way out of them before Daryl returned, but the wet denim had clung to her thighs like some especially tenacious papier-mâché. She'd finally managed to snake out of them and now they hung, still damp and cold and surely drying stiffly, beside the rest of her clothes. _They got a good washin, at least_ ', she thought wryly.

Beth was glad now that she'd had the foresight to take off her boots and socks in the boat—at least those were dry. And her small bone-handled knife had miraculously remained secure in her belt. She placed it now in the backpack where it rested beside her. She had her weapon; she could still run if she had to…and fight. No matter that she'd have to do so half-naked if her clothes didn't dry, or if she didn't find something else to wear, and soon. She would not dwell on the missing journal—it mattered not, she supposed, that the record of her inner thoughts was lost. _At Ieast I'm still here._

Daryl had gone out to the woodpile to split a few more logs, but not before making her promise to get out of her wet things as soon as possible. He'd been out there for a while now, and though she couldn't see him clearly out the back window since they'd boarded it up, she could hear him. The swing and thud of the ax rang out loudly, and she swore the strokes fell harder and more forcefully than before. Before they'd gone fishing, before she'd fallen in. Before she'd seen below the surface.

An eerie sort of calm had fallen upon her since it had happened. Not acceptance, not quite, but rather a heightened awareness of the inevitable. She recalled the other near miss earlier that morning, when she had lead them here through the forest as if drawn by some unseen force. When she had so nearly lost her footing and slipped off the precipice into the waters below. As though the lake itself had brought her here, had called to her, had been waiting for her, all this time. _"He leadeth me beside the still waters…"_ The words of an oft-repeated psalm—words that ought to have lent comfort—now sent a chill through her.

For the shadow of death had indeed fallen upon her today, not once, but twice.

Until Daryl returned, there would be no heat, no warmth, only dusty ash behind that grate. Until he returned, she could only wait there in that scratchy tartan blanket and try not to shiver until her bones shook and her teeth rattled. And yet, as always, she found it hard to remain still, hard not to _do something,_ and so she stood up carefully so as not to let the heavy blanket slip from her shoulders. She intended to go to the kitchen, to fetch the rest of the ingredients she'd been preparing when Daryl had interrupted her earlier.

As she stood up in front of the fireplace, she saw something she had not noticed earlier: a small wooden cross hanging on the wall right above the little clock on the mantelpiece.

She turned quickly away from it and crossed the living room toward the kitchen, her bare feet padding softly against the cold wooden floors. As she did, she considered what might have occurred here. What she and Daryl had observed before still held true—there was no sign of a struggle. Not here, and not in any of the other cabins they had checked. The only sign of anything amiss, on the surface, were the strange verses scrawled in red upon the wall of that last, abandoned cabin.

It was only as she made her way back toward the living room after fetching the sliced apples from the chopping board she'd left on the table earlier, only after she'd picked up the salt and pepper from the cupboard along the way, that she saw it. On the fridge, beneath a magnet from 'Wild Adventures Theme Park', was a small, hand-written post-it note:

 _We can't stay any longer. We're going before things get too bad._  
 _If you find this, know that we love you. God bless you and keep you._  
 _J &M._

What to make of such a message? Could it be that the folk here had indeed chosen to end it all? To 'opt out,' as Daryl would say? But why in such a strange manner? Or could it just be a coincidence, a strange twist of fate, that this couple's words to their friends or family had been so…final? After all, any 'good-bye' these days could well be the last, as Beth had far too much cause to know. _Maybe they had a car. Maybe they made it out of here, before…_ But the cold, sinking feeling inside her told her otherwise.

With feet more used to treading softly upon fallen leaves than cold wooden floors, Beth made her way quickly and quietly back to the fireplace. As she stood over the coals, sprinkling the rest of the ingredients into the stew pot and stirring the cast-iron ladle with one hand, she felt a surge of disgust and something else: indignation. For there was an injustice here…she could feel it. Whether the people in that lake had gone willingly to their deaths or not, someone else's hand had moved to slice open their throats—a strange, chilling act, and wholly unnecessary if the object was solely to keep the victims from rising again. If it was a burial, why had their bodies been stripped in such an undignified manner? No, there was something wrong here, deeply wrong.

An image of her father swam before her then, of the blood seeping from his throat, red and unmistakable, even from where she'd stood screaming all the way across the prison yard. Screaming as though her own heart lay there in that field, ripped from her chest. She thought of the smiling, happy young couple who'd owned this place, who'd possibly sought shelter here in this secluded spot after the turn. She pictured them executed in the same cold-hearted manner, and it stirred something deep within her, a fire on the brink of raging.

But it was all too late. Too late for her father, too late for these people. _But it's not too late for us. We can get out of here, find a place, find others and…_ and what? She had not thought so far ahead, had not allowed herself to plan so far into the future for a long time. She had, she realized with surprise, become content to live day by day at Daryl's side. But as much as she had grown used to life in the forests, fields, and countryside, she knew they had been very fortunate indeed, dodging the worst of the herds of walkers, avoiding the bands of men that were rumored to roam these parts, and finding plentiful game. Thus far, they had escaped all but minor injuries, incurring only scrapes and bruises. Heck, they'd even managed to avoid something as commonplace as poison oak. _But when winter comes, what then? What if one of us gets injured or sick, or…?_ No, they had to keep looking.

Beth realized she was still clutching the stew ladle with an intense ferocity, as if it were a weapon. She loosened her grip and sighed deeply. Of course they could not stay here but the one night, that much was clear. For such a place as this was surely haunted, cursed even. They would move on, stick to the forests as before, but keep trying, keep looking. _Maybe the whole world is haunted now._ Another chill ran through her. She hoped Daryl wouldn't be too much longer with the firewood.

She could still hear him out there, could still hear the recurrent swing and thud as he hacked away at each log. She began to wonder if she should check on him, make sure he was alright, but then she remembered she was wearing nothing but an old tartan blanket, so she sat down again upon the rug. As she rummaged through their pack for the rest of the fresh thyme she had gathered earlier out there in the garden, she felt something hard and cool and metallic against her fingers. She drew the object carefully out of the sack, and with it came a flood of memory.

It was the silver spoon she'd picked up at the country club, now seemingly so long ago. Out of all the seeming-treasures, the strings of pearls and abandoned jewelry strewn about the place, the souvenir had caught her fancy. Not because it was silver-plated, but because it was engraved with a picture of the Capitol and the words: _Washington, D.C.._ At the end of each year, the juniors at her high school had always taken a trip to the nation's capital, and she remembered how she had already been begging her parents to let her go. Her father had said no way, not if Jimmy was going too, but Beth, ever the optimist in such matters, had been _certain_ he was going to change his mind.

But then the outbreak came, and Beth never went back to school, for there were no teachers, no classmates, no school left attend. She could only assume there was no D.C. anymore, either. And yet, as she knelt there by the fireplace, holding onto the cool silver in her hand—clutching it more tightly than even than even the ladle—she found that she did not want to let go.

 _Well, he gave her a dimestore watch,_  
 _and a ring made from a spoon._  
 _Everybody's looking for someone to blame…_  
 _You share my bed, you share my name._

More snatches of the melody came to her then, a song she had sung times beyond count at the prison to their family gathered inside, to Judith, and sometimes, to herself.

 _I miss your broken-china voice_  
 _How I wish you were still here with me._  
 _Well, you build it up, you wreck it down_  
 _You burn your mansion to the ground._  
 _When there's nothing left to keep you here, when_  
 _You're falling behind in this_ _Big blue world_

 _Oh, you got to_  
 _Hold on, hold on_  
 _You got to hold on_  
 _Take my hand, I'm standing right here,_  
 _You got to hold on._

The song was one that had made her smile in days gone by, made her feel like her voice was smokier, sexier than it was, that it belonged to someone far older than her meager years. And yet now she felt her eyes misting with the memories held within that tune. The prison. Family. Lil' Asskicker. _Wherever you are, all of you,_ she implored her absent loved-ones, _you got to hold on._

A sudden creak, the screen door opening, startled her out of her reverie. She stood up quickly and turned around, gathering the woolen blanket tightly around herself, the spoon clattering to the floor at her feet.

Daryl stood in the doorway, carrying a large stack of wood in one arm. Despite the coolness of the day he appeared sweatier than ever. _How much firewood did he chop, exactly?_ she wondered, amused.

Wordlessly, he walked past her to the fireplace and dumped half the load beside the iron grate, then knelt to arrange the rest of the logs amongst the coals. She saw him reach into the pocket of his vest for something, a match, which he struck and lit, and then dropped beneath the logs. He did not so much as glance her way, but remained kneeling before the newly-kindled fire for some time.

Only once the flames were crackling in earnest did he speak. "We can't stay here." His voice was hoarse, as though he'd already forgotten how to use it.

"I know," she said. And she did. She'd understood for some time now that they couldn't remain in one place, not for long. But she had hoped that, just this once…she'd thought—

"I _thought_ —" Daryl nearly choked out the word "—this place mighta been…"

"Different?" Beth offered gently.

He did not answer, and his eyes remained fixed intently upon the crackling flames. Beth thought she saw reflected there the faint spark of hope he'd let grow within him today—the hope she had stoked—before it flamed and then went out once more.

She could scarcely believe it, but it seemed that as much as she'd hoped to remain here a little while, to rest their weary heads a spell in this seemingly-enchanted spot—just one last time, one last vacation at the end of the world—Daryl Dixon had hoped even more.

He stood up then, still not quite looking at her. "Nah…'s all the same now." He waved his hand dismissively. "This place, it ain't…" he trailed off, his hands clenching into fists at his side. "Damnit, Beth, you almost—you could've…" And without warning, his boot connected with the fire grate, the impact sending sparks flying from the coals, little fiery specks floating through the air.

For a moment, Beth had a vision of fireflies on a midsummer's eve—a broken man's tentative hope, trust, and faith, now cruelly thrown back in his face.

"Daryl—" she began. But what to say? _I'm sorry I lead us here? I'm sorry I fell in. I'm sorry somethin' bad happened here._ But it was too late, she could not change it. It was the world. And Daryl knew that better than anyone.

"Beth, I—" he started. Still standing before the fireplace, he had angled himself away from her, head bowed slightly.

Sensing the wariness swiftly returning to her companion's stance, she knew what she must do. As always, words alone would not comfort this man. Heedless of her nakedness beneath the woolen blanket, she reached out to him, and placed her hand gently upon his arm. "Hey," she said, "'s alright. I'm alright."

As Daryl turned to face her, the edge of the blanket slipped out from her one-handed grasp. With quick fingers, she snatched it up again, but not before it had slid all the way down one shoulder.

His eyes caught hers, held her entrapped for a moment in time, before moving slowly across her upper body. She heard his sudden intake of breath, felt his gaze upon the gentle slope of her shoulder, and the pale, exposed skin just above her chest.

Daryl shifted in place, clearing his throat. "Sooner we get outta here, the better," he said, averting his gaze, looking down at his boots. "Tonight, even."

 _What'd you chop all that wood for then?_ she wanted to ask him. But in that moment, her voice seemed to have fled.

Even so, she considered his words. Certainly, there'd been times when she might have agreed. Times when they might have been better off, just as they had immediately after the prison, running through the whole night. But not today, not now…

"Daryl," she said, moving closer to him, her fingers still pressed firmly against his forearm, "it's only one night." Vividly, she could still recall a certain night spent crouched together the trunk of a car, and yet another huddled in a dark stable while thunder sounded overhead and walkers swarmed outside. "'Sides," she continued, "we've been stuck in plenty of worse places."

Not only that, but as she glanced down at her drying clothing, she mused that perhaps tonight wasn't exactly the best time for charging through the woods naked as the day she was born. Naked as she was even now beneath the blanket. "Unless," she added, looking up at him and arching her brow, "you're suggestin' I run out there with you in just my socks and boots?"

At her words, his eyes darted up once more, roving up and down and over the blanket draped over her small form. She thought he might have reddened slightly, but it was hard to tell in the flickering firelight, hard to tell beneath all the sweat and dust on his sun-bronzed face. He seemed abashed at the very least, for he cleared his throat again, half-muttering something that sounded like _"Uh-no-yeah-I-mean-of-course."_

She couldn't be sure; she could scarcely hear him over the sudden pounding of her heart.

Beside the fireplace, Beth could smell the stew beginning to simmer and could feel the warmth of the flames through the heavy fabric of the blanket. The heat of Daryl's skin under hers, the fire of his blood beneath her hand seemed to quicken her own. Standing there beneath her companion's lingering gaze, she had grown warm indeed. _Too warm,_ she thought dizzily, withdrawing her hand from where it lay atop his arm, and stepping back a pace from him.

For some reason, she had expected him to remain where he stood, had thought he would not notice that she'd shifted away. But to her surprise, he stepped toward her, as though the sudden space between them existed only to be inevitably filled once more. As he closed the gap with a long stride, the clunk of his boots upon the floorboards kept time with the hammering in her chest.

He reached a dirt-stained hand toward her; she stood barefoot and motionless before him, as still as a deer that knows its doom is at hand. But the man merely grasped the edges of the rough fabric and pulled the blanket over her shoulder, drawing it more tightly around her. He was oddly clumsy at this task, his usually skilled hunter's fingers fumbling ever so slightly. His touch was gentle, extremely so, and yet she remained all-too aware of the great reserve of strength behind each movement, as though he had to exert immense effort merely to keep his hands steady.

With the blanket wound once more tightly around her, scratchy against her bare skin, Beth felt herself being guided across the living room's small expanse toward the brown sofa. She hardly had time to register the heat of his touch, the strength in his fingers. A moment later she was standing with her back to the sofa, facing Daryl. He loomed over her, his form a great shadow blocking the wavering light from the fireplace as he stood, his eyes fixed upon her for a long moment.

Seconds, or perhaps even minutes thundered by, and still he was staring. Still, he was holding her before him, his fingers tightening their grip now, pressing the woolen fabric into her skin. Beneath that piercing blue gaze, beneath that powerful grasp, Beth felt smaller and more fragile than she had in a long time—not to mention tired beyond measure. She knew in that moment that Daryl— _Mr. Dixon_ —could have done anything, asked anything, _demanded_ anything, and she would have obliged without question.

Perhaps he sensed this too, for he released her suddenly. He spoke then, a harsh and grating command. "Sit down. And stay here."

It took all her strength not to collapse right in front of him. "Where're you goin'?" She could not imagine where he could be off to, now of all times.

Daryl grunted deep in his throat. "Just checkin'. The perimeter. The alarms…you know."

"Oh." It was all she could manage. She would not say the word that threatened to spill from her parched lips. _Stay_.

"Stay—" he began, as if reading her mind. "Stay here. Sit by the fire if you gotta." His voice was strained, almost husky. "Damnit, Beth. Just get yourself dry, okay?"

Before she could muster up any manner of reply, she found herself staring at the back of him, at his dust-stained angel wings shifting beneath the heft of that deadly weapon strapped over his shoulder. As he strode out the door, the screen slammed loudly behind him, but Beth could barely hear it over the blood resounding in her ears.

Exhaustion rolled over her like a wave, weakening her already unsteady legs. Without further thought, she let herself fall to earth—or rather, down against the cushions. She drew a slow, deep breath and sighed, overcome with a heady blend of relief and pleasure. Oh, it sure was comfy all right. Heavenly, in fact, to rest her head upon the padded arm, to stretch her legs out, catlike, and slide her bare skin just for a moment against its faux suede cushions.

Beth supposed the stew could be left for just a moment to simmer over the fire. She supposed for once she could wait, and do nothing, for just a little while.

…

As the rich scent of venison wafted into her slumber, Beth woke with start to find herself still on the sofa. She sat up groggily, head pounding. The events of the long day and the all-too close call must've knocked the wind right out of her, for she rose to a sitting position slowly, clumsily, as one waking from the long, dreamless sleep of the dead.

 _Ugh._ She'd drooled all over the pillow, and her throat felt dry scratchy. _How long have I been asleep?_ In her haze she could barely ascertain how much time had passed. All she could tell was that room had dimmed considerably, the sun lowered to at least early evening now.

She realized with a flush that the blanket had rucked up in her sleep—thankfully, it was still wrapped tightly around her body, but her upper thighs were now exposed to the air. She'd better get up and put something on—this was getting ridiculous. Not to mention she needed to check on the stew. It would be a sad waste to burn such a meal. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of the taste of it. But first… _I need a drink,_ was her all-consuming thought.

As her eyes adjusted the light, something on the side table caught her attention. A glass of water had appeared on the table's surface, as if by magic. _Daryl…?_ she wondered fleetingly, before reaching out to take the cool glass her in hands. She lifted it to her lips, and sipping long and deep. _Ahh, that's better._

Her thirst quenched, she set the cup back down upon the side table and blinked once, twice, and almost had to pinch herself. For there upon its smooth wooden surface was a small book with a familiar bright green cover. Even her pen was there, still stuck neatly down the side of the binding. A flood of relief hit her and she reached for her beloved diary, picking it up and holding it instinctively against her chest. She hadn't realized just how it had meant to her until that moment.

There could only be one explanation—Daryl must have found it. But where? She had been so certain it had fallen out when she had plunged into those dark waters, so certain it had floated away. She had imagined the ink fading into nothingness, had presumed its pages soaked and unreadable. But as she flipped quickly through the little notebook, she found that it was not even wet in the slightest, and her writing within its pages remained as neat and clear as ever.

When she arrived at the final page she saw, scrawled in a messy, barely legible hand, the words: _Your lucky day, Greene._ She gasped, recognizing Daryl's handwriting from various supply lists back at the prison. He must have returned to set there beside her while she'd slept, along with the glass of water. She was grateful, of course, and yet could not help but somewhat flustered at thought of him leaning so close above her as she had slept, nearly naked on the couch.

Where was the man anyway? Standing up carefully, she crept quietly to the kitchen window. Holding the blanket tightly around herself, she leaned over the sink to get a better look. She had to squint, for the sun was low now in the western sky, casting long shadows upon the lake and the forest alike, bathing the landscape in a fiery glow. She leaned closer, pushing the lace curtain aside to get a better view. _There._ She could just make out his distinctive shape where he stood on the platform at the top of the stairway, gazing out across the water. _Thank you,_ she breathed against the glass. She would repay him, somehow.

Turning from the window, she nearly skipped back to the fireplace where she checked on the supper and the state of her clothing. The stew was, thankfully, not burned, just bubbling, and it smelled divine. Her underwear was dry—that much was a relief. Letting the blanket slide from her shoulders, she quickly slipped her panties back on. But the rest of her clothes, including her poor, tattered excuse for a bra, were still far too damp. Out in the woods, she wouldn't have had the luxury of waiting. But tonight, surely a few warm, dry garments were not too much to ask for, not after what had happened…

As much as Beth still felt the niggling tug of guilt when rifling through a strangers' closet, need once again outweighed such _civilized_ concerns. And so, shivering now in nothing but her underwear, she swiftly sprinted back to the bedroom to search for something dry to wear.

The light was steadily fading; she'd have to be quick about it. Earlier, she'd had some success in the couple's closet, and so she checked there once more. Before, she'd only been looking for something warmer to wear on top of her own clothes, and so the exact fit hadn't mattered so much. But when she looked again now, she remembered that the majority of the clothing was in fact an assortment of cute but highly impractical sundresses. She reminded herself that it was likely the place had never been intended as a permanent residence and had only ever been in regular use during the summer months.

Digging deeper into depths of the closet, she found a few shawls and sweaters, but no long pants. Just skirts…and dresses. There were a number of hues to choose from. Beth couldn't help but admire the pretty garments, vibrant splashes of color in a faded world. She hadn't worn a dress since…

On a whim, she decided to try one on. Picking the first dress that caught her fancy, she quickly slipped it over her head. It was pink and huge and puffy. In it, she was sure she must resemble a strawberry shortcake. Her heart sunk. The lady of the house had been far bustier than herself, and she pulled off the fluffy garment with a sigh and looked again.

After pushing the clothes hangers back and forth a few times, she discovered what she sought. A sundress the soft blue of a spring sky. And from the looks of it, slightly smaller in size than the rest. She slipped the silky fabric over her head, and immediately knew it was the right choice. For though it hung loosely around her hips, it tied around the waist, which made all the difference. She could already tell this one at least wasn't going to fall off any second. She might even be able to run in it, if it came to that.

Of course, it was nowhere near warm enough on its own, so she looked again in the closet and found a shawl of soft, luxurious, deep-red cashmere, and wrapped around her shoulders. _Ahh,_ she thought, feeling decidedly less exposed now, _that's better._

Even though she had found something to wear temporarily, she was far from finished. An idea had come to her as she'd stood there looking through the couple's closet, and she turned with purpose to the man's side. Amidst hunting gear and a few polo shirts she found a variety of longer-sleeved shirts and jackets. Hopeful now, she moved on to the jeans, but they were huge, and extremely long. From the photos she could tell that the man who'd worn them had been quite tall. Taller than Daryl. _More like Shawn,_ she thought, with a pang that she swiftly swallowed down.

She settled finally upon a brown-and-tan plaid flannel button-down shirt and a heavier black denim jacket. _At least the jacket looks like somethin' Daryl would wear,_ she thought. She would not even ask him, for she knew he would just shrug, like it didn't matter. Like it didn't matter that the only garment he had beneath his vest was a stained, faded shirt that might once have been black a hundred years ago. No, she would just give these to him—as a dare, perhaps, and then he would not, could not, refuse.

Both tasks now accomplished, Beth adjusted the shawl around herself and gathered the shirts into her arms. Moving away from the closet, she made her way back across the length of the large bedroom toward the door. But before she reached the doorway, she halted in her tracks. For staring back at her from the mirror above the dressing table was a reflection at once familiar and unfamiliar. Oh, she'd passed the large mirror on their check of the house earlier, but this was the first time in, well, she did not know how long, that that she'd looked at herself. Really _looked._

She set the shirt and jacket down upon the dresser, drawn in now, unable to tear herself away. The creature that gazed defiantly back at her from behind the glass seemed alien. It could hardly have been the same girl who had fled the prison, let alone the one who had once stood alone before the shattered glass mirror in her old bathroom, the girl who had once thought that she wanted to die.

Beth leaned in closer, and it seemed to her that she must have left any remaining softness she'd had on her back at the prison. Flesh had melted away from her bones, leaving jutting cheekbones, snub nose, elfin chin, heart-face…only the too-big moon eyes were familiar.

She blinked, but still those wide, unwavering eyes stared back. Eyes that had once held the reflection of a summer sky above a country farm, and later had seemed to absorb the sullen grey of the prison walls. Eyes that now revealed loss upon loss, grief upon grief, sorrow upon sorrow. Eyes that had beheld the fire, had gazed upon the red seas of blood, and seen dead men walking. Eyes that had witnessed a father's head cut from his shoulders, and had looked into the deep, dark waters of the abyss. It seemed almost unbelievable that only a few hours ago these eyes had dared once more to brim with hope and crinkle with laughter. _And they will again_ , she thought with a fierceness that startled even herself.

But first, she thought ruefully, glancing at her reflection again in the mirror, something had to be done about her hair. Still damp, it was quickly drying into a matted mess in that ponytail. She removed the tie and loosened her locks. They had grown longer than ever, floating now down past her shoulders and against her back, somehow managing to be both limp and frizzy at the same time.

On the dressing table was a soft, brown bristled brush, the type her momma would have used to smooth her hair for her when she was a child. Beth could almost imagine her mother's long fingers against her golden waves, stroking, pulling, plaiting, and she breathed a deep sigh. She reached unthinking towards the brush, and had even grasped the handle in her hand, when she stopped—for upon its bristles was a still a single strand of long, brown hair. The memory of tangling brown fronds floating before her face in that lake came to her then, and she pulled her hand away. Maybe she didn't need to brush her hair, after all.

But after a quick search through the dressing table's top drawer, she found a small fine-toothed black comb, the sort a man would use. She ran it quickly through her frizzy mane, but her hair wouldn't cooperate, as though mocking her for such an attempt to appear civilized. To appear more like her old self. Someone who'd attended church, danced at spring dances, and laughed at Fourth of July picnics—someone who'd once looked right at home in a blue sundress. Someone who'd tried to keep herself so neat and clean at the prison, tried to cling to some semblance of before.

The mirror, however, cared even less for _before_ than it did _after_ , and reflected only the cloud of sun-whitened wisps floating obstinately around her face, a pale gold halo that could not be tamed. It seemed to Beth that she could no longer disguise the wildness that had entered her very being. For a moment she thought to leave her hair down, save for the small braid still in it, but at last she just shoved her hair—mats, tangles, and all—into a low, side ponytail, the sort she used to wear at the prison before Judith was born and she'd had to keep her hair well out of reach of curious, grasping little fingers.

She'd just finished arranging her ponytail when she heard it. Coming from outside, from… the backyard? A _thwunk, thwunk, chop._ She lifted her gaze toward the direction of sound just in time to see a flash of movement, something dark and shadowy darting behind the slats of the panels nailed across the back window.

 _Daryl?_ was her first thought. Had he gone back for more firewood? To check something? She hadn't heard him come back up the stairs, hadn't heard the cans jangle as he ducked under them to step with his heavy boots onto the porch.

She could not take any chances—she'd have to check and see what it was for herself. _Shit, I don't have my knife,_ she realized belatedly, her breath quickening. Naked as she'd been, she'd concealed her small weapon in their backpack when she'd hung up her clothes to dry…and the bag was still in the living room.

Gathering the clothes she'd chosen for her companion close to her chest, she left the mirror and paced quickly to the front window of the bedroom. Squinting hard, she couldn't see him where he'd been standing on the stairway before. But then, she couldn't make out much save the evening sunlight glinting off the treetops, the surface of the lake turned a bright red-orange glow.

She left the bedroom and walked slowly back through the hallway, her bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor. As she passed through the kitchen she carefully picked up the small paring knife she'd left on the table while chopping the apples, and holding it firmly in her free hand, she stepped warily into the living room.

"Daryl?" she called softly, tentatively. Surely she would have heard him if he'd come through the screen door.

All was quiet now. The living room stood empty, still, and silent, save for the stew bubbling merrily away in its pot over the soft crackling of the fire. Had she imagined the sound? Beth moved cautiously toward the back window of the living room, the dress floating luxuriously, impractically around her—a strange and now-unfamiliar sensation. Once there, she peered through slats out to the backyard, cast now in shadow, the lowering sun blocked almost entirely by the cabin.

Nothing. No one. Her skin prickled. _Where are you, Daryl?_ She felt rising panic, tightness gripping her chest and her stomach, but she swallowed it down, took a deep breath. Maybe he'd gone around the other side already. Her heart pounded, her stomach knotted, not in fear but with worry. _Don't freak out for no reason,_ she told herself.

With a deep breath, she returned to the kitchen to stand in front of the sink. She pushed the little lace curtains black and peered intently through the clear glass, leaning so far over that her nose scrunched against the windowpane .

And instantly, relief flooded through her. For there he stood upon the dock—she could just make him out, close to the bottom of the stairs, gazing out across the pier as stretched out into the lake. _He must've been checkin' the perimeter, just like he said._ She slipped the paring knife back into its slot in the knife block, her breathing steadying to normal once more. She would finish getting everything ready, and would go down, fetch him in for supper—which was surely more than ready now.

With renewed calm and sense of purpose, Beth walked over to the brown sofa and laid the shirt and jacket out upon the cushions. She folded them neatly, placing the soft plaid flannel atop the black denim. Then she went to the little table beside the sofa where her diary still rested. She tore out out a piece of paper from the back and wrote: _"Thank you. These are for you."_ She was about to add: _"Love, Beth,"_ but in the end she just drew a big heart, colored it in, and then penned her name beneath in cheerful letters.

Returning to where she'd been sitting by the fire earlier, she slipped the little green journal into the backpack. While there, she tested the stew, ladling a scoop to her lips. She felt almost like her mother as she sniffed it, blew on it, sipped it once or twice, and then deemed it more than ready.

Checking her clothes one last time, she found that the jeans were still far too damp to pull on, but at least the sweater and shirt were getting on nicely. Her socks were blessedly warm and dry where she'd left them next to her boots, and she pulled both on now. She knew she must look ridiculous wearing a frilly blue sundress with cowboy boots, but she found she didn't even care.

Now that she herself was ready, she went to the kitchen, fetched down a pair of bowls from the cupboard and some spoons from the drawer, and set them onto the kitchen table. As she did, she noticed the little bouquet of wildflowers she'd picked earlier, sitting in their translucent glass vase in the center of table. The colorful flowers seemed far too cheerful now. _No, these won't do_ , she thought. She picked up the flowers and vase, adjusted her shawl, and walked out the screen door and onto the porch with determination.

She was about to toss the entire thing off the railing, vase and all, when she hesitated. Looking down at the beautiful, fluted glass her in hand, it dawned on her that, in such a world as this, a thing of such beauty might never exist in that specific shape ever again. Gleaming there in the evening light, the crystalline vase seemed suddenly far too precious to break. And so, she set it down gently upon the porch railing and removed the bundle of flowers.

Looking out across the glossy surface of the lake, glowing orange beneath the sunset sky, Beth thought to herself that there was another way to do this.

…

She remained standing on the cabin's wrap-around porch for some time, absorbing the final rays of heat from the fading sun, clutching the wildflowers in her hand. While part of her wanted to go down there, she was content, for now, to watch her companion from where she stood, to gaze down upon him from her perch. She took pleasure in observing seemingly small details, such as how the wilds of his dark hair had turned to deepest bronze in the evening light.

Daryl had moved to edge of the dock now, which stretched far out across the surface of the lake. Standing there against the fiery glow of lake and sky, holding his bow aloft, he seemed a figure at once lonely and forbidding.

Even as Beth had observed him from afar, she'd noticed the faint glow of a cigarette as he'd lifted it to his lips—that one, last smoke he'd been carrying around for weeks. _So he finally decided to light the damn thing_ , she thought, transfixed as his smoldering breath rose into the air and was carried away upon the evening breeze. Today of all days, perhaps the man had just needed a break. It made her smile, that—though not without a tinge of regret. _Some vacation_.

But this day was perhaps not as disastrous as it seemed, for the scene before her was as beautiful as anything she'd set her eyes upon in a long time. The lake, lined by forest and marsh, perfectly mirrored the sky as it turned steadily from brightest orange to a softer hue, edged with pink and violet, and the tips of the trees seemed to briefly catch fire before the sun lowered further behind darkening woods. Such beauty spread before her was almost enough make Beth forget what lurked beneath the surface. Almost.

For a long time, all fell completely still. A lone blue heron stood on one leg upon a rocky outcrop, just meters from the dock. The quietness was momentarily broken as a flock of birds flew across the sky, coming to roost in the trees on the north shore, and Beth was pleasantly distracted, watching the reflection of their perfect 'V' dart across the water's still surface.

And then she saw them.

There were two of them—a pair, she knew—for such creatures mated for life. As silent as ghosts they flew low over lake, and alighted, stately and poised, upon the water, leaving ripples, perfect circles in their wake. At the sight of them, white-winged, graceful, her breath caught in her throat and her heart constricted in her chest. She knew they must be returning to their nest for the evening.

At first, she wasn't sure what moved her more: to observe such beautiful creatures in the first place, or the realization that the lake—so full of darkness now in her mind—was, in fact, their home. She considered this, and had to concede that it was all-too human to assume that the rest of Nature would to cease to function just because death and darkness lurked below the surface for humanity.

More than ever before, Beth had grown intimately familiar with the strange merging of life and death, the blurring of lines. Out there in the wilderness that seemed to be swiftly reclaiming the world, life carried on as it always had, turn or no turn. There had always been predators in the forest, and there had always been prey. It just seemed that now everything was upside down, for the dead now rose to prey upon the living, as though even death itself were no longer enough to stop the insatiable hunger that man carried inside him.

The living have always hunted the living, though, she thought, and shuddered.

In the brief moment before the swans enfolded their outstretched wings, they floated upon the lake's burnished surface like the grand sailboats Beth remembered from that summer her daddy had taken them to that vast stretch of water, that big lake—what was its name?—the one crowded and full of sun-tanned hordes seeking relief in the sweltering mid-summer Georgia heat. The place her daddy had taken them once, on vacation.

She closed her eyes, and could hear her father's voice, entreating her: _"Bethy, sing me a song, my fair colleen."_ He'd always been so very proud of their Irish heritage. _Daddy, oh Daddy, this one's for you_ , she told him. She softly hummed the first few lines until the words came back to her, and then she sang them out loud, uncaring if the breeze or the water carried her ringing voice to where Daryl even now stood, solitary and alone.

 _She stepped away from me_  
 _And she moved through the fair_  
 _And fondly I watched her_  
 _Move here and move there_

 _And she went her way homeward_  
 _With one star awake_  
 _As the swans in the evening_  
 _Move over the lake._

 _The people were saying_  
 _No two e'er were wed_  
 _But one has a sorrow_  
 _That never was said_

 _And she smiled as she passed me_  
 _With her goods and her gear_  
 _And that was the last_  
 _That I saw of my dear._

Beth trailed off, the rest of the lyrics of the traditional folk melody fading from her memory. A sudden gust of wind blew in from across the lake, sweeping the loose strands of her hair across her face. The blue dress billowed around her, and she had to catch the red shawl in one hand and hold it against herself lest it blow away. The strange breeze carried with it a foreboding; she felt as though she had peeked through a keyhole and caught a glimpse of something she wasn't supposed to see…or something yet to come.

She knew she was being fanciful. Surely, it was just the night air with its early warning of winter, and the knowledge of the dead in the water that made her shiver so. She pulled the shawl even more tightly around her shoulders, but despite the chill she was not ready to go inside. Not yet. Her eyes turned once more toward where her companion stood at the end of the dock, and she suddenly, desperately wished he were up on the porch with her, so they could talk, or be silent. Or just…be.

Leaning against the railing, looking out across the expanse of the lake, Beth thought she could sense the immensity of the sorrow of this place. She wondered if there were any corner of the world now untouched by such sorrow. _Daddy,_ she thought. _I wish you were here, too_. Her father would have shared in the depth of her feeling for the strange fate of the folks in this beautiful place. He would have understood the grief she felt for these people she'd never met, these people whose lives could have once easily been her own. She looked down again at Daryl where he stood. _It could've been his too,_ she thought. For all the man seemed to consider himself unsuited for a 'normal' life, he'd appeared to be enjoying himself here…until she'd fallen in.

Once more, she had to wonder at the fate of the couple who'd lived here, and at what had lain behind that strange note she'd seen on the fridge in the kitchen. She had to wonder if perhaps there had been something of the blind faith here, that some of the former residents of Woodbury had once had for their leader.

Beth could understand the temptation of a way out, a one-way ticket to another world. She had once sought just such a path. And yet…she shook her head. She was not blind. She still held to the faith of her father, in that she believed there was a heaven waiting beyond this life, and yet she would not let her belief lead her unthinking into oblivion. _I won't surrender,_ she thought, with a vehemence that startled her. _I will walk this path to whatever end may await. I will not fade away into nothingness. I'd rather burn._

No, if the God of her father still ruled this world, then surely His reign was not in scripture scrawled threateningly across a wall, nor in the mind of a single, demented leader. Nor was it in the depths of that dark water, but rather in the light that filtered through the trees at dawn, in the flight of the pale doves in the morning, in the graceful, folding wings of a pair of mated swans, in the footsteps of a great stag upon the frosted earth, in the distant stars at night, the flames of the evening sky. And in those few, small fires that yet flickered within the hearts of men.

Her eyes found him again, drawn to his dark form against the sunset sky. He stood at the far end of the dock with his crossbow raised, as if waiting for the dead to rise from the once-more still water. If any man still had a fire inside him, Beth thought, it was Daryl Dixon.

That which she had said to him, sitting there on the moonshiner's porch, she still believed to be true—that here was a man who had been made for this world, made for how things were now. And just has it had then, it struck her through the heart that she had not been made for this world. Where Daryl had been molded by his life, both before and after, into the form of a warrior, with a heart grown great in courage to match, she had been bred for a far more delicate existence, had been born into a far more ephemeral skin.

She knew that she was not physically strong—at least, not like him. It hung over her, always, knife-bright, blade-sharp. The awareness that she had not changed, not as much as others had. And yet, she had adapted in other ways. She could fight, she could hunt, she could even kill, when she must. And she could run, swifter than a deer. _I can outrun him now, easy,_ she thought with a smile.

And even more importantly, she'd learned how to put the ugliness, the pain and loss away. Or rather, perhaps she had simply learned how to make room for it. Sometimes she it imagined as though her insides had expanded, almost as if her heart held new and secret, hidden chambers. She'd tried to show Daryl how to do it, too, in her turn, for it could save your life. And that had to count for something. _I'm still here. I made it._

Of course, in recent times, in their times out in the forest, her continued physical survival owed itself in no small part to the things she had learned from him. _The things he's taught me, to protect me._ He was always protecting her, one way or another, these days. Beth remembered a long-ago, fraught conversation she'd had with Maggie back at the farm, the day she'd tried to end it all. _"No one can protect us,"_ she'd cried to her big sister in despair. _"We're alone."_

With their older brother gone and their father only one old man against the world, she had believed her own desperate words. Rick had still been an enigma to her; Daryl even more so. She couldn't have known just how wrong her words would prove. For Daryl Dixon had protected them all, as long as he could, far longer than any other man would have, she was certain of that. He'd protected her, surely, better than anyone had since the turn. _Maybe he was made for that, too,_ she thought, and without warning, tears pricked her eyes.

Against the reddened sky, his angel wings aglow in the sunset, her companion appeared a lonely, solitary figure. _The last man standing._ Suddenly, Beth ached for him, for how easily he seemed to have drifted back onto his dark cloud. And so it was as she looked down upon where he stood at the end of the dock, as she watched him stamp out his cigarette with his boot, she knew: she had to go down there, to go to him.

She ducked carefully under the string of cans across the entrance to the porch that served as their alarm here just as it did out in the forest. As she descended the wooden stairway, she marveled once more at the way the dress swished around her legs and against her thighs, making her shiver with pleasure.

Daryl still hadn't budged from where he stood, staring implacably across the wide, still expanse of the lake. _He must've heard me by now_ , she thought.

And at that very moment, as if in answer, Daryl turned, the red sunlight glinting across him as he caught her eye, and he began to make his way down the dock toward her. She moved more quickly then, and was halfway across the long wooden platform when she saw a look of astonishment cross his face. _Maybe he doesn't recognize me,_ she thought, supressing a smile. _I hardly recognize myself._ He seemed to hesitate for a brief moment, but then strode towards her with a little half-jog, and as he came closer she saw that his mouth was turned up in a smile, as though the sight of her had revived him.

As they reached the middle of the dock, they stood face to face, and Beth suddenly felt utterly ridiculous. She looked down at the dress, to where its blue fabric swirled so impractically around her bare legs, and gestured helplessly. "My clothes're still dryin'. I know it doesn't fit. It's way too big, but I thought…" she trailed off, feeling more than a little silly.

Daryl cleared his throat. He was staring.

"It was the only thing that even halfway fit me in there," she shrugged, her hands tugging at the skirt of the dress, with a tentative smile.

"I, uh… ain't never seen you in a dress before." He swallowed. "You look—" he began, and then paused.

"What?" she arched her brow.

"I'unno…" he mumbled, shrugging his broad shoulders and glancing down at his feet, his boots shuffling on the wooden planks of the dock.

Normally, Beth wouldn't press her companion to speak when she knew he would rather remain silent, but considering how much he seemed to enjoy teasing her these days, she thought it was only fair that, sometimes, she teased right him back. "Come on. How do I look?" she smiled again.

When he didn't respond, on a whim she twirled around as if they were at a ballroom dance instead of standing on a fishing dock in the middle of nowhere at the end of the world.

She stopped spinning; the world didn't. She swayed a bit dizzily where she stood now before him. As she looked up at him expectantly, the skirt of the dress still swished against her legs, like water flowing over rocks in a stream.

Daryl cleared this throat once more. "Clean," he blurted. "You look, uh…clean."

Beth couldn't have stifled the laughter that erupted from her if she'd tried. "Why, thank you, Mr. Dixon," she giggled.

And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the word, the only possible course of action in that moment, she stood up on her tiptoes, reached an arm around his neck, and kissed him.

She'd meant to aim for his cheek, but he was taller than she was used to, and somehow she missed, her lips instead landing softly upon his neck. There, below his ear, against his throat, she could feel the quick, strong pulse of his blood beneath his skin. A small gasp escaped her; it was as though she had reached down and touched the very beating of his heart.

For one, shocked moment they both went still. Beth thought surely Daryl would just stand there, hands clenched at his sides as he had the night he'd come to her cell, all wordless apology and grave honor, to convey the news of a young man's death with a look and a glance. But then she remembered his brief touch upon her arm, his hand resting upon her elbow. She recalled how, earlier that very day, he had held her as she'd shivered in the hull of the rowboat. And so, she waited where she stood on one tip-toe, leaning lightly against him. The lakewater lapped gently against the wooden boards below their feet and she felt the slow, liquid rhythm in her own lifeblood. A question, whispered across the water, awaiting its answer.

Thus it was that after what seemed like a turning of the world, but could only have been mere seconds, she heard the crossbow clatter to the boards beneath their feet. And then his arms were around her, hard and strong and tight, as though this time he were the one close to drowning. Even as she felt herself pressed firmly against his chest, his breathing halted for a moment and she wondered if perhaps he hadn't intended to do this, but had pulled her into this hard embrace against his will, moved by some primal force beyond even his understanding.

By now, both her arms had entwined themselves around his neck, twisting vines risen up from the wild, tangled roots of her heart. She had not meant to brush her fingers against his hair, to tickle the back of his neck with the flowers still clenched in her hand. She had not meant to rest the exposed undersides of her limbs against the broad expanse of his shoulders, had not intended to nestle herself against him so, to press her small breasts against the breadth of his chest. There was a fluttering within her ribcage, as of wings beating frantically, struggling against a wall. And yet, the prospect of escape grew less and less appealing with each attempt. For the wall was warm and solid and strong and…

Beneath her, Daryl remained utterly silent, save for the thumping of the war drum within his chest. For the span of a drawn breath he held himself completely still once more, and if she'd had any coherent thoughts left in her she might have feared the next moment he would let go, and turn away from her. But his hand spoke louder than any words as it came to rest, heavy and warm, on the join of her waist and hip. Beth could feel the rough pads of his fingers catch upon the dress, could sense the hard calluses even through delicate fabric.

She stood rooted to the spot, lips still hovering lightly against his neck. With her mouth parted, just slightly, against the warmth of his skin, she inhaled the familiar, male scent of him. The sweat and woodmoke of the man of the woods blended with the cigarettes and leather of the man she remembered from the prison. Where Daryl's hand rested she felt his thumb move slowly along her side, trailing almost hesitantly against her hip. A trembling ran all down her body, her breath escaping in tiny gasps, and she knew not how to fill the next moments without…something. And yet, she would not, could not close the gap fully, would not let her hips meet his.

Oh, but these were perilous waters indeed.

In the space it took her to catch her breath, to truly register the sensation of his hand upon her waist, he brought it away again. The absence of his touch spoke just as clearly as its presence and she knew could not remain there, clinging to the man like some choking vine, so she lowered her arms from his neck, let them slide lightly down the leather of his vest. As she did, her shawl slipped off her shoulders and pooled red at her feet. With her upper body now exposed to the evening air, Beth was suddenly grateful that the sundress was a little too loose.

As if waiting for its chance, another chill breeze swept across the lake and through the sudden space between them. Beth shivered violently. Still standing before her, Daryl did not meet her gaze but looked down at the wooden planks—all that stood between them and the dark waters below. He stooped then, reaching down to where her shawl lay, and as he knelt to scoop it up, she could see the tips of his reddened ears where they peeked through his unruly hair.

Daryl remained there for a moment on one knee before her, one hand upon his weapon where it had fallen at his side, the other now holding the red shawl. He looked up at her, and as he did, she placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him gently. She took the shawl from him and quickly wrapped it around herself.

"Thank you." Her voice seemed barely a whisper, and yet it echoed across the water all the same. "We should go inside," she added softly.

Her companion made no reply, but held her gaze in his own.

Beth stared right back at him. "Supper's ready," she said more firmly. She put her hand on her hip, her best impression of her momma when she'd call her daddy, Shawn, Otis and everyone back into the farmhouse for the evening meal. "You gotta be starvin'."

Finally, Daryl stood, and Beth's face was nearly flush with his chest one more. He was not the tallest of men, and yet, as he rose to his feet he seemed to loom over her. "Yeah," he said. "Sure am." He was looking down upon her intently, and before she could reply, his hand was on her back, reaching out as though to turn her toward the stairs, to guide her. "You're cold," he said simply.

She realized she was indeed shivering again. It seemed that she'd been shivering ever since she'd fallen in, as though she would never stop now that she'd started, as though she'd be shivering for the rest of her life. The warmth of the fire waiting inside, and the warmth of the man standing before her, had never seemed more appealing than it did now.

That was when she suddenly remembered the flowers still clenched in her grasp, and recalled her original reason for coming down to the lake. She held up a hand to him. "Daryl, wait. There's somethin' I gotta do."

"Thought you wanted to go inside," he gestured toward the house. His voice was harsh as gravel, yet he did not sound annoyed, just genuinely perplexed.

Murmuring an apology, she moved past him to stand at the very end of the dock. She did not need to look back to know that he'd turned on his heel and followed her back to its edge. She sensed him there, at her side, at the margin of her vision. Waiting, patiently waiting.

She gazed out across the water, its surface fading from glossy bronze to dusky pink and orange, as the fiery sky dimmed into night. The first stars had appeared, she could see them glinting there above the trees—and below, reflected in the dark water. She looked across to the far shore. Nothing seemed to stir. All lay still, watching…waiting.

When Beth had picked the wildflowers in the garden behind the cabin earlier that afternoon, she'd thought them mere decoration. Something pretty for a pretty place. But it seemed to her now that she had picked them for this very purpose, without even knowing. And so, with a sigh, she tossed the bouquet into the lake and watched as the glassy surface broke into tiny ripples. The little bundle sank briefly and then bobbed back up and floated lightly away. _Peace,_ was her only prayer. _Let them be at peace._

Perhaps she had looked too long into the water's depths, or perhaps it was just the chill, but something made her sidle closer to Daryl where he stood, made her reach out instinctively and take the hand which hung at his side, large and warm and waiting, in her own. As before, he was still for a very long moment, staring straight ahead into the waters, but then she felt a gentle pressure against her hand as he squeezed it ever so slightly. She clung more tightly onto his hand, and pulled him closer toward her.

Her task here finished, she was about to urge him inside once more, when his fingers tightened against hers, and he cleared his throat. "Look," he nodded toward the rocky outcrop at the edge of the cabin's property. Beth followed his gaze.

Together, they watched as the blue heron rose up into the evening air, a stately gray form gliding over all. Beth thought of the swans, always two by two, and felt a melancholy ache for the lone bird. _Go find your mate,_ she admonished him. _It's no fun, bein' alone in this big, blue world._ The creature's wide wings flashed briefly in the pink and violet of the fading light, and then he was gone, disappearing somewhere along the marshy banks on the far edge of the water.

With that last glimpse at the great bird in flight, she turned away from the glassy surface of that lake, away from the swiftly darkening evening sky. "Come," she said to the man whose hand yet remained clasped tightly in her own.

…

And so it was that she led Daryl toward the flight of wooden stairs and back up the stairway just behind her. Ducking carefully beneath the string of cans across the porch and raising it high enough for them both to pass beneath, she then maneuvered their way through the screen door and into the cabin.

Beth could not help but recall another time that she had lead this man by the hand, as though he were a lost child. Then, with a soft, insistent murmur she had seated him down onto the porch of the moonshiner's shack. Now, after leading him back inside the cozy lakeside cabin, she had seated Daryl down upon the brown sofa—the very spot where she herself had lain asleep but a little while ago. He'd let go of his bow, had let it clank to the floorboards at their feet.

She hovered now before him, her shawl having slipped from her shoulders again; she did not try to adjust it, for Daryl's fingers were still entwined with hers.

Just as before, she knew she would have to extricate herself with some difficulty. Silently, the man clung to her hand, staring at it as though he'd never seen it before. With a rush of warmth from her belly to her toes, she realized that perhaps he was expecting her to sit down beside him. _How the heck did I do this last time?_ She could barely remember, buzzed as she'd been on the moonshine.

As it was now, she was pulled so close to his knees as to be nearly in his lap—she did not see how it would be possible to sit down with her hand clasped as it was in his without essentially sitting on top of him. So, she did what she would have done if he really were a child who had hurt himself playing: she knelt down before him, the hard wooden floorboards digging into the bare skin of her knees, the crossbow just beside her. She winced a little as she knelt, for her shins were still slightly bruised from where she'd banged them into the side of the rowboat. With Daryl's fingers still tightly grasping hers, she placed her free hand upon his knee to steady herself. This seemed to rouse him, and he eyed her small hand upon his knee suspiciously, as though it might bite him.

"Daryl," she said carefully. "Supper… remember?"

Slowly, gradually, it seemed to dawn on him that he still had hold of her hand. He loosened his grip then, and looked her in the eye where she still knelt before him.

"Thought I'd take care of it tonight," she went on. "You're always fixin' our meals, out there." She moved to turn away, to go to the kitchen table and fetch the bowls, but then she paused, remembering. "Oh. There's somethin' for you. On the couch. And don't you dare try to get out of it. Or else."

His eyes narrowed. "Or else, what? Whatcha gonna do, Greene?"

"I don't know, Mr. Dixon. Might be I send you to bed without any supper."

A half smirk played upon his face. "Like to see you try."

Beth just glared at him. "You better've put those on by the time I get back, you hear?" she said, turning away.

"Hey," Daryl called from the sofa. He reached automatically for his weapon, as though he might get up and follow her. "Where you goin'? Thought we were gonna eat."

"Why the bathroom, of course," she called back. "'S not every day I get to use one now, is it?" She could have laughed at the look on his face. "I'll be right back, I swear."

"Hmph," he grunted, but he settled back down all the same.

"Oh, by the way," she paused in her tracks, turned on her heel and strode back to stand before him where he sat on the sofa. "Thank you."

He looked up at her in confusion for a moment; then it seemed to dawn on him. "Your book, ya mean?"

She giggled. "My diary, yeah. Thought it was gone. For good," she added. "But you found it." And without another word, she swooped down and swiftly pecked him on the cheek. This time, her aim was true.

As she waltzed away down the hallway, the dress swirling around like a blue wave, she didn't need to look back to know that she'd left him staring in her wake.

It was growing dark inside the house as well as outside now and Beth had forgotten her flashlight, so she left the bathroom door slightly ajar to allow the last of the dim light shine through. She didn't take long. Nonetheless, she thought it best to remain there for a little while, to give Daryl a bit of privacy while he changed into the clothes she'd picked out for him.

Or so she told herself. In reality, tonight there was a palpable tension that seemed to have settled in the spaces between herself and her companion, a tension that had not been eased by the strange moment they'd shared on the dock—if anything it had only been heightened. And thus, Beth found that she needed a moment to herself, simply to breathe.

To pass the time, she rummaged almost mindlessly through the cupboards and drawers beneath the sink and found a few things here and there that would come in handy out in the woods. A fresh bar of soap, extra toilet paper, feminine hygiene products…a pack of baby wipes. She had the last item in her hand when it hit her with all the force of the chill wind across the lake, her throat constricting tightly. For suddenly, she could not help but think of Judith.

Even after all this time, some days it still seemed…unreal. The children, lost. _Judith_ , lost. Perhaps forever. Maybe it seemed unreal to her because she still did not quite believe it, not completely. _"Maybe this isn't a world for children anymore."_ Lori had often repeated those words during later stages of her pregnancy, when they had still not found permanent shelter. Lori was scared—and with good reason. The poor woman's fears had come true: for not only had she forsaken her own life, but the daughter for whom she'd died giving birth seemed all but lost now. Beth knew not where. _I tried to find her, Lori,_ she thought, desperately, achingly. _Maybe someone got her out. I don't know. I can't know. I just gotta believe that she made it._

Suddenly, she could not remain in that stuffy confines of the small bathroom any longer. Gathering the items she'd found, she strode quickly down the hallway to the bedroom where she proceeded to dump the supplies onto the dressing table—she'd shove them into the pack later—and then seated herself for a moment upon the down comforter. She took this all-too rare chance to remove her boots once more, to ease her sore feet for a spell.

Digging her toes into the soft, cushy rug on the floor at the side of the bed, her thoughts drifted back to Lori. Lori, who'd been the closest thing to a friend to her that winter on the run. Lori, who'd died so Judy could live. Lori, whose child Beth had, for many months, raised as if she were her own. Despite the woman's dark fate, Beth could not help but remember a time when she herself had wished—no, dearly hoped—to have children. _"I always wanted a child."_ Back at the prison, she'd told herself Judith would be enough. But now… the words haunted her, an echo as distant to her current reality as anything she'd had to put away since the turn.

Amongst the many ironies of life now, Beth thought that the cruelest was that a woman's blood still flowed, that her tides remained at the mercy of the moon, unaware of the dangers of the world below.

And that a man's blood still stirred to meet hers.

If the world had truly ended, if people were no longer meant to bring their young into its brutal and violence embrace, then why were men and women still filled with the power—and the longing—to do so? A cruel irony indeed.

To conceive a new life…Beth had heard folk new to the prison mutter as she'd walked past with Judith in her arms, heard them say that no woman in her right mind would _choose_ such a fate, not now. She remembered, with a pang, that she herself had judged Lori quite harshly at first. Obviously, the minute she'd held Judith in her arms, she'd known. Known in her heart that bringing that little girl into the world had been the right thing to do, no matter the cost.

And so, despite well-meaning concerns, such overly-judgmental attitudes had disturbed her nonetheless. It seemed that somehow the fear of violent death and potential loss had come, for most folk, to outweigh even that most natural of human instincts: to further one's own kind, to raise a child of one's own.

For Beth, taking care of the kids had hardly been easy, but it had been a welcome distraction, something that'd helped make daily life worth living. And so it was that however much she had tried to make room for it, when it came to this particular loss, she still felt its sting.

Perhaps it wasn't a world for children anymore, but only because children couldn't stay children for long now. _We had to grow up, and grow up real fast._ She recalled the last day of her own childhood, when her innocent world had shattered, the day her mother had risen from seeming-death and tried to kill her. She thought of the kids she'd known at the prison, the younger ones who had seen too much, too soon. Their eyes had, at times, reflected sights that ought to have been unseen by ones so little, and so young. And then she thought of Carl, who'd had to put down his own mother. Carl, who'd grown strong and brave, yet also hard and cold before his time.

In pondering the many and varied ways in which a child could be _lost_ , Beth's thoughts returned to Daryl. Daryl, whom she'd suspected had to grow up fast even before the turn. And yet, she couldn't help but recall how he had been with Judith, how the usually taciturn man had turned effusive with his affection. With a sad smile, she remembered how he'd been with all the kids at the prison. Gruff at times, yes, but he'd also been surprisingly…adept. Patrick had practically worshiped the man. Daryl had even somehow gotten through to little orphaned Luke, who'd tended to live inside his own sweet head most of the time. _Maybe he learned how to do that from his momma,_ she thought. Daryl hadn't much spoken of her before, and sometimes she wondered.

Out of nowhere she found herself wondering if Daryl had ever wanted kids of his own. If he'd ever even thought of it. Some part of her told her that he'd probably never given it much consideration, that like as not he'd probably never been in any kind of position to even contemplate such a thing. And yet, after turning it over in her mind and seeing there the image of a man adored by all who'd lived at the prison, from the littlest to the eldest, the thought did not seem as impossible as it had at first.

Maybe this world needed children now, more than ever. _Maybe, havin' kids to watch out for is what'll keep us goin'…keep us human._

The darkness of the room had grown almost palpable; if she was going to stay in here, she'd need to light a candle. But the matches were out there in her bag in the living room. Beth was certain Daryl had to have finished by now, so she got up and crossed the bedroom toward the door. On the way, she paused beside the dressing table and grabbed the little black comb where she'd left it earlier, for she had a plan.

Out of instinct, or perhaps just habit, Beth crept out of the bedroom and walked as stealthily as possible down the darkened hallway. As she peered around the corner, she glimpsed Daryl, his back turned to her, pulling his arm through sleeve of the button-down flannel shirt. It was well and truly dark now, and the firelight cast flickering shadows upon the walls of the small living room, and so she only caught a fleeting glimpse, but she saw them just the same. Like some devilish road map, the lines on his back were, just for a moment, illuminated by the orange glow of the flames.

It wasn't as though she'd never seen them before. Along with his tattoos—of angels (or were they demons? she had never been quite sure)—she'd caught flashes of them under his vest if he moved a certain way, or in a certain light. And, just like his tattoos, Beth had always just considered those scars yet another part of Daryl, visible reminders of a hard-lived life.

And yet, as he turned slightly toward the fireplace, his shirt still partially unbuttoned, her breath caught in her throat. She hadn't realized the scars ran all the way down his chest as well. There was a tattoo over one of the marks, one she'd never seen before, though she could not make it out clearly from where she stood.

It had occurred to Beth before, back at the prison, and out there in the woods, that maybe he didn't like folk seeing his bare skin, didn't like people knowing what hid under that leather armor. That maybe he had reasons. And in the light of the fire she could see it, now. For these were not the haphazard scars that a warrior might bear from many a hard fight, but seemed in the eerie glow to be angry, purposeful. The scars of an entirely different sort of battle.

Beth remembered seeing such welts, long-faded, on her daddy's back once. Not nearly so many, but just as angry, just as purposeful. And so, she knew. _"He took the belt to me,"_ was all her father had ever spoken on the matter. The subject had never been raised again.

Instinctively, Beth fingered the bracelets around her wrist. She pushed them aside, and traced the faint, faded scar beneath. She thought of the ways that the world marked men—and women—the way it tried to claim them. Perhaps, in the way her bracelets hid her scar, all that ink was Daryl's way of reclaiming his own skin.

Daryl had finished dressing now. He'd even put his winged vest back on top of the jacket she'd found for him. Still hidden behind the corner of the wall, Beth was about to clear her throat, to make some noise to let him know she was there, when she saw him stoop to the ground, and pick up the little note that had fallen there. Her note. He seemed to look at it for a long moment, and then tuck it gently into his vest pocket.

He was turning to sit back down on the sofa now, andshe shifted back behind the wall lest he catch her there, gaping at him. He must've heard her by now, for he was a man of the woods, and her heart was hammering fit to wake walkers hundreds of miles away. Even so, she waited until she'd heard him seat himself upon the cushions, and then, taking a deep breath, she entered the living room.

"Hey," she said, smiling at him.

"Hey," he replied. And as he looked her way, Beth saw that he had a little quirk in the corner of his lips again, just the slightest curve. Anyone else might not have noticed, but the sight of it sent a shot of warmth through her. She clutched the red shawl around herself, and not because she was shivering.

As she moved across the living room toward the sofa, she said nothing about what she'd just seen. And yet as she walked past where he sat, his eyes followed her, questioning.

"'The hell you doin' now, Greene?" he asked, as she came to stand behind where he sat on sofa. "Ain't we gonna eat already?"

Standing behind him, she pulled out the little comb. "Just sit still. This'd only take a minute if you'd quit your squirmin.'"

He grumbled, but settled back down all the same.

And so, she combed steadily through his dark mop of hair until it gleamed and shone in the firelight. She couldn't remember seeing his hair like this since…well, since the prison, at least. And back then it had been much shorter. Easier to keep lice-free and to run a comb through now and again, she supposed. "Don't tell me it doesn't feel nice," she said, pausing for a moment. She placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

"What? You yankin' my hair?" he grunted.

"Pfft. I'm not yankin' it, I'm _combin'_ it. But you know what I mean. Bein' all nice and clean and tidy for once."

She felt him shrug beneath her. "Ain't nothin' 'nice and clean' about any of this," he gestured to himself. "Not for a long time. Maybe not ever," he added darkly.

"Oh, come on. I'm sure I remember you showerin' at the prison," she smiled. "Unless, I only imagined you smellin' so good."

Daryl just grunted again.

"What about church?" Beth asked, absentmindedly pulling the comb through a particularly tricky knot which had occupied her attention.

"What about it?"

"You know, before."

Beth felt him raise his shoulders, dismissively. "Do I look like the church goin' type?"

"I just meant…not even when…" She paused, and then pressed on without thinking, "Didn't your momma get you all gussied up for Sunday service?"

Daryl went quiet and very still for a long moment, and immediately Beth knew she'd asked the wrong thing.

"My mom…" he said finally, his voice gone hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Oh, she was God-fearin' all right. She prayed all day every day 'til my dad got home and, well, you know…" He paused a minute. "Hell, most of the time she'd be too wasted, after he—"

Beth had paused mid-comb, holding her breath in grim expectation, for she knew what was coming. _Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut, why couldn't I—_

"—ain't easy, hidin' all them bruises. You know, in a dress," he continued, and Beth tried and failed to swallow the lump forming in her throat. "And even if she'd had a fancy shirt and one of them bow-ties to put me in, she would've had a helluva time findin' me by then."

 _Oh, God._ The sight of a man's back covered in angry, red marks had now been replaced in her mind by the image of a cowering little boy, hiding in the dark. _"I'm just used to this. Things bein' ugly,"_ he'd told her, back in that moonshine shack. She could have wept.

But she steadied herself and did not speak for a time, but just gave his broad shoulder a gentle squeeze. After a moment, after the silence had stretched long and fraught between them, she slipped her arms around his neck from behind and rested her chin upon the top of his head, his freshly combed hair tickling her nose. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Hey," Daryl cut her off, his voice rough, though not unkind. "You couldn'ta—was a helluva long time ago," he finished quietly, and she felt his hand come to rest on her arm.

"Still," she insisted into his hair. " _Still_."

She stood there for a time, her head resting lightly upon his, a wordless apology. She felt his fingers wrap around her forearm and grip her gently, tenderly, just for a moment, before letting go.

The fire behind the grate sparked to sudden life, crackling in a burst of heat and sparks, and Beth smelled the strong scent of the long-stewing venison. _Shit, hope it's not burnin'._

She released him, and moved carefully back around him, back to the other side of the sofa. After quickly checking on the damned stew, thankfully un-burned, she fetched the pair of bowls from the kitchen table where she'd set them earlier. And finally, finally she ladled one, two scoops into each bowl.

Wordlessly, she handed Daryl his bowl and a spoon, and then she settled herself upon the multi-colored rug by the fireplace. She lifted her spoon carefully, daintily to her lips, tested the piping hot broth, and took a sip. Flavor upon flavor burst upon her tongue in just that one little sip, rich, savory notes, brought together with the rare luxuries of salt and pepper, and she smiled to herself, pleased.

But as she took another sip of the broth, she felt Daryl's gaze fix upon her, could feel him watching her from where he sat upon the sofa. She turned her face to him, and caught his eyes; twin points of fire, glowing brightly, burning into her.

"What're you doin' all the way down there, Greene?" he spoke, and there was a strange intensity in his voice that sent a shiver through her. "Come here."

Beth gulped down her bite of stew, the warm, savory taste of the broth still tingling in her throat. She didn't move. "Maybe I'm cold," she said finally.

It was the truth. Beth had grown used to sitting on the hard ground, sitting close to heat of the flames—so much so that it felt odd not to, now. And she _was_ still shivering. And yet… she recalled how inviting that couch had been, earlier, when she'd so quickly fallen asleep upon it. And, of course, she knew all-too well how comfortable that man's shoulders were after a long day. Something in her told her that to climb up on those cushions now beside him would be…unwise.

Not that she was afraid, no. It was not fear that she now felt, coursing through her.

Daryl grunted then, and stood to his feet. He took one long stride toward her, bowl in one hand, and stooped quickly to pick up the woolen blanket she'd dropped earlier. In one swift motion, he draped it over her shoulders and sat down beside her on the rug.

"Alright," he said, digging into his stew, "let's eat."

…

And so they ate their supper in pretty blue china bowls with real spoons sitting there on the floor.

As they sat there beside the fire, beside the crackling logs and the bubbling stew pot, enjoying their meal together, Beth could sense that her companion had finally relaxed again. He had been on edge and as tightly strung as that damn bow of his since ever she'd plunged headfirst into the lake. Now, some of the tension in the spaces between them had eased, and she began to unwind right along with him.

They ate quietly for a time, and Beth couldn't help but glance at Daryl now and then, for some kind of reaction. Eventually, he paused, mid-bite. "Damn girl, what the hell did you put in this?"

"Why?" she asked hesitantly. "Don't you like it?"

"Like it? It's the tastiest meal I've had in…I'unno…years."

"Oh." Suddenly she felt herself blushing, but of course she was undeniably relieved. "Well, it's just the leftover venison of course."

"And? What else? Or ain't you gonna share your secrets, Greene?"

"Oh, you mean the other stuff? Just what I found out there in the garden." She motioned to the back window. "Fresh thyme. Some other herbs from one of the cabins. And what I found in the kitchen: salt and pepper, a cube of stock from the cupboard. Oh, and the apples."

"Apples, huh? Is that what I'm tastin'?"

She smiled at his surprise. "Yeah, I sliced up some of those pink ladies and threw them in. Figured we could do with the extra fruit."

He spoke through another mouthful. "You figured right. Best venison stew I ever had."

Beth found herself blushing again, though she was mighty pleased. "Bet you didn't know I could cook."

"Hmph. Guess I should've, by now." He flashed a quick smile back, and then looked thoughtful. "Your momma teach you?"

She nodded. "Yeah, we used to…well, she'd show me which herbs to pick from the garden. And how to put it all together. We'd be in the kitchen for hours, sometimes. Trying different flavors."

He nodded. "Ya'll musta had lotsa fun."

"Yeah…we did." Beth found that she didn't mind talking like this with him. Talking about before. Even so, she remained more than a little concerned about saying the wrong thing, after earlier. _Careful_ , she told herself. "You like to cook?" she asked, shifting to a hopefully less-risky subject. "I mean, other than makin' jerky over campfires."

Daryl shrugged. "Don't much think about it. Just always fended for myself, you know? Guess it sort of became habit. Nice not to have to, though, this time." He inclined his head to her.

"It _is_ rather nice, havin' a real kitchen, again."

Daryl looked at her for a moment, perhaps recalling the big kitchen in her farmhouse. The one she'd collapsed in, in front of everybody. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet it is."

They fell quiet again, chewing on their spoonfuls of stew for a time in companionable silence.

After a while, Daryl spoke again, through an especially big mouthful, "This what people do on vacation, then? Sit on the floor by the fire, pretendin' they're out there?" He gestured to the forest behind the walls of the cabin.

"Somethin' like that," she grinned at him through a mouthful of her own.

"Hmph," he grunted.

The evening drew on and, between the two of them, they finished off the entire stew. They sat facing one another in front of the fireplace, stuffed silly. Beth didn't feel guilty at all—for, like wolves in a lean winter, they had no notion of when their next meal of this magnitude would be, and so they made the best of it.

After a time, Beth looked around her, and stretched with a yawn and sigh. "It's gotta be gettin' late. Guess we'd better clean up."

"Here, I got it." Daryl stood up, took the bowl from her hands, and moved to take their dirty dishes to the sink in the kitchen.

"Wait," she said, suddenly. "Maybe you don't gotta do that."

He looked confused. "Hey, I'm cleanin' up for ya."

"It's just…no one's comin' back here, right?"

Daryl paused mid-stride in front of the sink. "No. They sure ain't."

"Well," she said, grinning at him.

"You got that look in your eye again, Greene. Don't tell me you're gonna burn this one down, too."

"No," she giggled. "Help me up, and I'll show you."

As he strode back over to where she sat in front of the fire, Daryl had a look in his own eye; that half-menacing glare he gave her when he was about to start chasing her out there in the woods. But as he reached her, he just licked his fingers, one after the other, and then offered her his hand. She placed her hand in in his, somewhat daintily, unmindful of his greasy fingers. As he lifted her to her feet, the blanket and shawl both slipped from her shoulders again. Still warm from the food and the fire, she hardly noticed.

The skirt of the blue dress swayed around them both as she lead him out to the porch. Wordlessly, she took one of the china bowls from him and tossed it as though it were nothing off the side of the railing. She heard it crash satisfactorily upon the rocks below.

Daryl understood her purpose now. He grinned, his canines a flash of white in the dark. For a split second Beth thought he might throw back his head and howl. But then, with a swing of his arm, he tossed his bowl off the side of the porch like it was a Frisbee. Beth heard it land far below, with a great _smash_.

They looked at one another for a split second, and then, breaking into wild laughter, they raced each other back to the kitchen to get the rest of the china and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers inside. Breathlessly, with an armful each, they ran back outside, practically tripping over one another to get back out there first. Beth made it outside just a hairsbreadth ahead of him, and he caught her with his free arm. She gave a little shriek and, without even thinking about, stabbed him with a fork.

He released her immediately, dropping a blue china bowl in the process. "What the— _Greene_!" he growled, in an attempt to sound affronted. But even in the dark she could see his teeth glinting, could see that he was grinning. Could see that Daryl Dixon was enjoying himself.

Enjoying his vacation.

She just grinned back, and stuck out her tongue. "Best keep helpin' me then, if you don't wanna get stabbed again."

In the end, they smashed every single plate, cup, mug, and bowl. Heck, in their exhilaration, they even sent each piece of silverware off the side of the porch, like darts.

Having fulfilled that sudden urge to destroy everything breakable they could find, they rested side by side against the porch railing. Beth waited, but Daryl said not a word about _goin' inside_. Not just yet. Indeed, they did not speak, but stood quietly, arms touching, both still a little breathless from the strange impulse that had come over them. The evening air was yet chill, but she hardly felt it now; her bare skin fairly blazed, as though it might catch fire any moment.

A fresh breezed stirred, and she turned her face heavenward, toward the pitch-blackness above. It was a clear, crisp night, and she nearly gasped aloud. She still hadn't gotten used to it, not really. The way the stars shone so brightly nowadays, how it was dark enough to see the entirety of the Milky Way, that great, glittering pathway that crossed the sky, like a bridge between worlds.

Closing her eyes just for a moment, she let the night air waft over her. She could not help but smile to herself as she did—for the contrast of the cool breeze hitting her skin and the warmth of the man beside her was more than a little wonderful. Even through that jacket he was wearing, she could feel the heat of him burning into her exposed skin.

All throughout the long evening in front of the blazing fireplace, Beth had grown increasingly aware of her companion—an awareness at once more intense, more painfully acute than ever before. As if they were but two objects in space, drawing ever-closer to some inexorable cosmic collision.

The cold of the night reached her, then, and she shivered. With eyes still closed, she leaned into him, resting her head lightly against his denim-clad shoulder. Daryl did not move away—if anything, she heard his breath hitch for a fleeting instant, and then she felt him shift, almost imperceptibly, toward her.

Her heart fluttering not first time that day, Beth took a deep, steadying breath. She opened her eyes again, blinking up at the thousands of shimmering stars. As she gazed out across the open water, she fancied she could see, just faintly, their reflection in the still, dark expanse of the lake.

Perhaps the end of the world was almost worth it, for moments such as these.

Almost.

With a sigh, Beth broke the silence, and tossed the last spoon into the blackness below. "There," she managed, still slightly breathless from laughing earlier. "All clean now."

Not for the first time that night, Daryl was staring at her. "Somethin' tells me your momma didn't teach you _that_."

Beth grinned, taking hold of his arm to lead him back inside. "Somethin' tells me you may be right, Mr. Dixon."

…

They'd lit a single candle. It flickered upon the dressing table and sent shadows across the darkened bedroom where Beth sat alone, waiting for Daryl to return.

He'd gone to put out the still-burning logs in the fireplace, and to make one last check of the house. Beth had gathered her clothes, completely warm and dry now, and quickly changed back into them in the little bathroom. Now, warm and cozy in her fire-dried sweater and jeans, she sat on the bed packing their bag. They would be moving out at first light, she knew. To put as much distance between themselves and this place as soon as they could.

She knew that Daryl had only really agreed to stay the night because of her…and not just because her clothes were wet. Beth was no stranger to running through the rain. No, she knew that he'd felt responsible somehow, and that he had tried to give her a chance to rest after the incident earlier. She was okay, though, and she pondered the irony—that, perhaps, her plunge into the lake had shaken her companion far more deeply than it had herself.

Nearly everything was packed, even their water bottles—empty now, they would have to refill them in the morning—and she'd come now to the blue sundress. Beth took a moment to decide what to do with the beautiful garment. She even considered hanging it back up in the closet, but at the last moment she shoved it into the backpack along with everything else. She knew it was ridiculous, impractical, and that she'd probably never have another chance to wear it ever again. _But what's a vacation without a souvenir?_ she thought with a little smile.

That was when she heard Daryl's boots clomp loudly upon the wooden floor, and she looked up as he arrived to stand somewhat awkwardly in the doorway. Despite their relaxed meal and the release of that strange, pent-up tension with the smashing of the china and glasses, as time for sleep drew nearer, Daryl had become once again wary and watchful, as though they were still out there in the dark forest. Beth had a feeling that he wouldn't sleep tonight, not even if she asked. And she would not ask him. For she sensed he would refuse—not in so many words, but he would insist on taking watch, that much she knew, and it amounted to the same thing.

Daryl had placed his crossbow down on the floor, but he was still hovering in the doorway. Lingering, as through somehow reluctant to even enter the darkened room. Across the dim expanse, his face wavered strangely in the candlelight, as though he were under water. "I'll be right here," he spoke, then, "if you… if you need me."

"Alright." She smiled at him from the edge of the bed. She put their packed bag on the floor and snuggled into the covers of the soft downy bed, as she had earlier that very day. "If you get cold over there all by yourself, there's another blanket here at the foot of the bed."

He nodded. "G'night," he said.

And then he blew out the candle, and all went dark.

As Beth lay on the expanse of the king-sized bed, she felt inexplicably lonely. Daryl was only right there at the door, but she had grown so used to him being only a breath away when she slept out there in the woods. Now, alone as she was in that giant bed, she felt almost…bereft.

It was only as she drifted in and out of fitful bursts of slumber, that she remembered: she'd forgotten to ask him what he'd been doing out there, back at the woodpile. _I'll ask him…in the mornin'…_

Then, finally, sleep claimed her. And, for a time, oblivion.

…

It was not the kind slumber that leaves one refreshed and ready to face another hard day in this life, but the restless, dream-filled sleep that renders one more confused and exhausted than ever upon waking.

And so it was that Beth woke out of a nightmare to complete darkness, complete silence. She sat up in the bed, gasping and clutching her chest, like she had inhaled a mouth full of water. She felt, for a moment, like her throat was constricting. Half-formed images drifted before her eyes, dreams only partially-remembered.

She'd been in the lake again, and this time the faces of the dead had been all-too familiar: Rick, Carl, Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, her father, her mother, Shawn, and…Daryl. Only, in her dream, the corpses of her loved ones had opened their eyes as they floated past, and they were the yellow, blood-shot eyes of the undead. Their mouths had gaped open and closed as though they were eternally drowning.

The once-cozy bed seemed suddenly to be swallowing her whole, seemed too wide, too vast, too deep, as vast and deep as the lake itself. She could not remain there another minute or surely would suffocate. So she threw off the downy covers and climbed down, her feet hitting the cushy rug with a soft thud.

From where she sat upon the edge of the bed, catching her breath, she tried to peer out the front window, but it was too dark. So she stood up, pulled the throw blanket off the end of the bed, and wrapped it around herself. Through her socks she could feel the wooden floor, hard and slippery under her toes. She looked out the front window, which was unboarded and was greeted by a darkness so complete as to be nearly impenetrable. _It's the dark of the moon,_ she remembered. She could barely make out anything in the coal blackness, only the scattering of stars, those distant points of fire against the pitch-black sky. And there, the very edge of lake, its waters still, like a dark mirror waiting to be broken. In the heavy blackness of that night, Beth could well believe what horrors lay beneath its surface.

She tip-toed quietly back across the bedroom to look through the back window. Peering through the spaces between the boards, she could just make out the very tops of the trees in the forest beyond, but otherwise all was obscured. Standing there, swaying ever so slightly, she stared into the darkness for a long time.

Until…could it be? Perhaps she'd only imagined it. A flickering, like a pale flame, or a flashing light, just at the edge of the treeline. She blinked, once, twice. The light flashed brightly, and then flashed no more.

She'd heard of foxfires—or _will'o' the wisps_ —before, such as the Screven Ghost Light of Georgia. Natural—or supernatural—phenomena, strange orbs or inexplicable glowing lights at night. _Am I still dreamin'?_ Instinctively, she pinched herself. No, she was wide awake. Maybe she was, finally, going crazy.

Daryl stirred in the doorway; she could hear the creak of leather as he shifted and stood. She remained there, staring out the back window even as she sensed him cross the room and come up behind her. There was a tingling, a prickling, on her skin as his hands came tentative and warm on her shoulders. His fingers barely brushed against her, but she felt the familiar fire of his touch all the same.

"Beth?" Her name was a question, uttered into the profound darkness that surrounded them.

"Daryl," she whispered. She turned to look over her shoulder at him and all thoughts of lights, real or imagined, fled.

She could not see him, only the faintest outline of his rugged features, and she did not know what force moved her hand, but it came up instinctively then, reaching for him in the dark. If she could not see, she could feel. Finally, she found found him. Her fingers brushed against his cheek, and she felt his beard-stubble, scratchy and rough, against her palm. She heard his sharp intake of breath at her touch, but she did not move away.

Her hand remained against the side of his face for a long time. How long she could not say, but at some point she realized she was swaying where she stood, as though she were still out there on that boat. Beth moved a step backward then, to lean against him, just a little. The top of her head now rested beneath his chin, tucked against his neck. The strange tingling returned, hovering in the few remaining spaces where their bodies did not touch. It was the sensation of being close, so close to a safe harbor after so long, too long, adrift in dark waters. In that moment, Beth knew—and yet would not allow herself to know—that standing together like this, they formed two pieces of something long-missing, but now found.

She sighed then, and closed her eyes. Born on a wave she could no longer resist, she leaned backward completely, let herself fall against the solidness of him, as lightly as a wave lapping against a dock. Daryl's grip on her shoulders tightened; the space between them finally disappeared. He, too, leaned into her touch. "Beth," he breathed again, and she felt the ghost of his lips against her hair. This time it was a plea, like he was begging for mercy.

Alone as he'd been in the engulfing darkness, perhaps he, too, had been drowning.

She remained there for a long moment, leaning against him, feeling the heat of his breath against her back, the strength of his fingers through the fabric of her borrowed sweater. She could have drifted away on that dreamlike wave…she could have fallen asleep right there, with the warmth of him a comforting, solid wall behind her.

But, there. There it was again. Not lights this time, but… _thwunk, chop, thwunk, chop._ That noise…she barely had time to register her thoughts, barely had time to blink her eyes open, when there was a sudden, loud crash from behind the boards. And then, without any further warning, the window exploded into tiny shards of glass that scattered across the wooden floor.

Suddenly, she was pressed up against the wall, Daryl shielding her from the flying shards. They heard it at the same time, the groaning, and they saw the hands, the rotten fingers clawing, grasping, trying to get through the boards still nailed across the window.

Daryl stood fast, a hardened, strong shield between her and what lay just beyond the window. He spoke then, and his whispered voice was like sandpaper against her ear. "Don't know how many yet. Might be we're surrounded. Got a few minutes, maybe, seconds. Get your boots on, quick, get the bag, open the window, and climb out. I'm goin' first, through the front door. I'll clear the way down."

"Down?" she spoke finally, her voice a tiny thread in the darkness.

"Down. We get split up, meet me at the dock. We're takin' the boat."

The walkers outside were growing louder, and then she heard another crash, like wood splintering, the living room window, perhaps. "But—"

"Ain't time for arguin'. Do as I say, Greene. You get down there, and you get in that boat. If I don't—"

"I won't leave without—" she began to protest.

"Just go!" he shouted. She could barely make out his form, but he moved away from her and through the doorway, grabbing his crossbow. And then he was gone.

She was alone in the darkness.

…

Nearly frozen to the spot, Beth forced herself to swallow her scream—not a scream of terror for herself but a cry of fear for her companion. It was the sudden crack of one of the boards that brought her to senses—a walker, nearly getting through. She practically leaped across the rug, grabbed the backpack, and rushed to the front window.

It was just as black as ever out there; she had no way of telling if the way was clear. So she just pulled the window upward to open it and lifted the screen as well. She threw the backpack out first, and was about to clamber through when she realized: her boots. The walker had crashed through glass and wood alike, and was inside the room now, but she had no choice; no matter how fast she ran, she wouldn't get far without boots. She sprinted back across the rug and grabbed them in one quick swoop, and then climbed, feet first, out the open window.

Beth landed with an ungraceful thud onto the porch that surrounded the cabin. Before she could even think, something was on her. Walker, man, something else entirely, she did not stop to find out. Using the only thing she had in her hand, she shoved the heel of her boot into it, and pushed as hard as she could. She could hear a hiss and a growl as it toppled over the porch railing and plunged onto the rocks below.

Swallowing down rising panic—for she could not see a thing—she pulled her boots on quickly, and shouldered the backpack. The way seemed clear now, and she ran blindly in the direction of the wooden stairs. It wasn't possible to see and even less possible to think; she just had to put one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. And hope.

She could hear a commotion, and it was then that she that she saw the faint outline of the wings on his back; Daryl was fighting off what could only have been walkers on the other side of the porch. He slammed one to the ground with the base of his bow, and kicked another over the side. She heard the squelch of his knife plunging into rotten flesh, heard him grunt as he pulled it out again.

"Beth! Watch out!" she heard him shout.

How the man could sense that one of them was right there, right behind her, was beyond her. It was so damn dark, she could barely see her own hand. But then she realized: the cans were jangling. She heard the walker itself less than second after Daryl's warning, heard its hiss, like a gruesome whisper close to her ear. _My knife,_ she realized. It was still in the backpack. She could have screamed. At herself, at the night, at the walkers…at the world, for being what it was.

But she didn't.

In a moment of strange clarity, she reached out her hand, remembering. That which had seemed so precious to her earlier, now in her need she did not hesitate to use with grim purpose. Her hand reached out into the darkness and found it, just where she'd left on the wooden railing. Immediately, instinctively, she raised the fluted glass vase and with sharp upward jab she smashed and stabbed it into the walker's face. She could feel thick blood running down her hand now, but she did not care; she shoved the corpse aside and moved to join the fray, to help Daryl.

But before she could reach his side, she heard her companion's shout echo through the blackness. "Go, damnit! I'll be right there."

"No, come with me!" she pleaded, "it's clear."

"Not for long," she heard him growl.

Her eyes must have adjusted a bit more to the dark, for she saw then, what he meant: from the edge of the porch she could see to the ghostly outline of the trees in the forest beyond, and from that dark wood was emerging a swarm, a herd, larger than she had seen in a long, long time. The biggest she'd seen since the prison had fallen in smoke and flame. Dozens upon dozens, like ants they were swarming out of the forest, stumbling down from the woods to the edge of the lakeshore.

They were coming for them.

If they didn't go now, surely they would be cut off, unable to reach the dock or the boat.

"Please! Daryl!" she nearly shrieked, and then she heard another grunt, heard him swear, and the sound of something tearing— _not flesh, oh God, don't let it be flesh_ —and then last of the walkers on the porch fell with a thud upon the floorboards.

And then he was at her side, yanking her by the arm, and together they were running. The string of cans jangled and fell to the ground as they crashed through it, and then they were flying down the wooden stairs, down to the lake.

It seemed to Beth to take an eternity to finally reach the place were the rowboat was moored, and somehow in the darkness their boots echoed against the wooden planks of the dock far louder than they ever had in daylight.

Daryl halted, holding onto her arm to stop her as well. They had reached the boat; Beth could hear the moans of the herd growing closer and closer. "I'll row," Daryl said in a low voice. "But you gotta push us off. Think you can do that?"

"Yes," she said, even though she wasn't sure. But there was no choice, she had to be.

Daryl got in first. As the boat swayed under his sudden weight, Beth attempted to untie the rope, fumbling in the dark.

"Hurry." Her companion's voice was a strained whisper.

"I'm goin' as fast as I can," she said. She tugged the rope harder and finally the knot was loosened. Pulling the loop once more, the boat was free. She was so relieved she nearly forgot that she still had to jump in, and so the boat had already started to drift when she stood up to make her attempt.

"Get in! Come on, Greene!" he called to her.

She threw the bag in first, and then taking a deep breath, she leaped. Not for the first time that day, she landed awkwardly in the hull of the little rowboat, her knees banging against the seat boards.

Daryl sat a slight distance from her at the oars. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.

"Yeah, just row," she assured him. But then something large and heavy was at her side, and she realized he was handing her his crossbow. At some point, he'd loaded and drawn it. Before she could say another word, he'd started rowing away from the dock.

"Get down," he told her quietly. "Anythin' comes after us, anythin' at all, don't hesitate. You shoot. I know you can do it."

Too breathless to speak, she just nodded and crouched low in hull, to the point where she was almost lying on her belly, her head peeking up over the side. She looked down the scope of the bow as he'd told her as they moved steadily toward the middle of the lake. The bow was heavier than she remembered, but she kept it pointed firmly towards the shore.

As the herd of walkers stumbled toward the edge of the lake, Beth caught sight of something that made her question her sanity once more, and caused the hairs on her arms stand on end. For amidst the lumbering horde was a tall figure, silhouetted against the others. This figure stood out from the stumbling herd in that it did not stumble, but rather glided across the ground like a sleek shadow. Not only were its movements swift and smooth, but this figure was illuminated by the flaming torch it carried in its hand. For the light it carried flashed suddenly, and yet, still she could not make out its face—if it had a face—for it remained hidden in darkness, obscured by what appeared to be a hood.

 _What the hell?_ Beth blinked once more, sure she was dreaming. A walker, wearing a hood? _Holding_ a torch? It simply could not be. And then she remembered the lights she'd seen from the back window, what she'd thought were will o' the wisps. But this was no tale, this was real. It was dark, and she was tired and squinting down the scope of the crossbow. But she knew what she saw.

There was a moment, just a moment, in which Beth, in her tendency to give the benefit of the doubt, thought maybe, just maybe, this person had come to their aid. But then, in one movement, the dark, hooded figure lowered the torch, and lit the wooden porch of the house on fire. Silently, it raised the torch high into the air and threw it an arc, and then everything seemed to move in slow motion.

"Look out!" Daryl called behind her.

And once more he was on top of her, shielding her with his body. The boat tipped precariously, swaying under the sudden shift in weight. There was a splash and a hiss, right next to her head; the torch must've just missed and sunk into the dark water instead. Beth let out a breath she didn't even know she was holding.

Still half-kneeling, half-lying in the dampness of the boat's hull, she felt Daryl crouched above her, a solid, heavy weight against her back.

"Y'alright?" she heard him ask.

"Yeah…yeah I'm okay." She tried to sound reassuring, but she was sure she was shaking violently beneath him.

"You see what I'm seein'?"

"I-I think so," she whispered.

"It tries _anything_ , you know—"

"Don't worry," she said, taking a deep breath and adjusting her hold on the bow. "I got this."

"Good," he said into her ear. "Let's get the hell outta here." And just like that, the weight of him was gone. He was back in his seat in the middle of the boat—she heard him grunt, and heard the oars resume their rhythmic splashing.

Still crouched low on her belly, ducking behind the prow, she held the crossbow against the edge of the boat. Her arms strained with the heft of it, but she was ready to release the trigger at any moment, her eyes affixed toward the strangely unearthly scene before her.

The little cabin at the end of the row, their cabin, had now caught aflame. Its roof smoked and burned, and the fire had spread downward from the porch to the wooden stairs. Illuminated by the flickering flames, Beth could see it all before her now: the walkers moving in the dozens toward the edge of the lake. She watched as they stumbled into the water, watched as their flailing, hissing forms splashed into the lake, sending rippling wave after wave out toward their boat. Some sank, perhaps destined to join the still forms of the dead floating just below the surface, while yet others bobbed and floated, flailing and hissing, toward the middle of the lake.

The sound of their growls and groans as they splashed into the dark waters now mingled with the roaring of the fire. The cabin they'd been sleeping in just minutes before was now completely engulfed in flames. The fire had spread quickly, consuming all in its path; some of the walkers burned as they fell into water. Even the dock was on fire, a great burning arm reaching out into the middle of the water, reaching out toward them. There was a mighty _crack_ , and Beth gasped as the trees surrounding the small wooden lodge now began to blaze in earnest.

Soon, the whole forest would be on fire.

In that moment, Beth saw not the inferno before her, but another. She saw her father's barn burning, collapsing, and she heard her beloved horses' frantic whinnies as their stable went up in flames. She heard her own screams as Patricia was ripped from her hands and torn apart in front of her. She saw the smoking towers of the prison, the fences falling, the tank exploding, and she heard her own desperate cries for children already lost and gone. And then she saw the moonshine fire, _their_ fire, she saw it light and spark and roar into being, and she could still smell the smoke, even now she could almost taste the burning wood. And as she watched, all fires, past and present, merged and danced before her eyes, and she was dazed, mesmerized.

 _Maybe this is how it ends,_ she thought. _Maybe this whole world is gonna burn._

As the light of the great fire flamed across the water, they found themselves once more in the middle of the lake. Beth could hear Daryl's heavy breathing behind her; with each intake of breath he rowed steadily. She heard the motion of the oars, the _creak_ and _splash_ as they hit the water in unison with each strong stroke.

She longed for a chance to turn and face her companion, to glance at him, to ask with her eyes, _"Are you okay?"_ —for she hadn't even had the chance to check, to see if he'd been hurt—or, god forbid, bitten—before they had taken that leap of faith off the dock and into the boat. But Daryl's instructions had been clear: if anything, if _anyone_ , tried to follow them…well, Beth had the crossbow. Her finger waited, patient and calm, on the trigger. She would not miss.

But Daryl rowed like a man possessed, and soon they had put enough distance between themselves and the strange figure on the shore that perhaps she would not need to waste one of his precious bolts. They were beyond the middle of the lake now, and even though it was still too dark to see clearly, Beth was certain they were swiftly approaching the very spot where he bodies floated, just the below—the very spot where she'd fallen and nearly not resurfaced.

While she still could not look behind her, something in her sensed they had reached the place. The giant fire now blazing amidst the row of cabins, even now consuming the trees on the south shore, cast distorted shadows upon them and across the water's surface. She took a deep, steadying breath, and braced herself. She felt Daryl make one last pass with the oars, and then the rowing motion suddenly stopped. The boat floated now, silently bobbing through the dark water. A few moments later, just as she expected, she could just feel the sides of the boat bumping against many, solid objects.

And then they were past, and she let out a shuddering breath. She felt Daryl resume rowing once more. Stroke after stroke, he propelled them onward over waters deep and dark and oh-so cold. She could still feel them closing over her head, threatening to pull her under. Promising a forever-sleep amongst the fronds and weeds.

No, she would not have given in to such oblivion. Never. But her own strength had nonetheless failed her in that moment. Without Daryl there to pull her from those waters… she shivered.

She dared a quick glance at her companion. In the fire-brightened darkness, she caught the fierce, determined gleam of his eye, the glint of his gritted teeth, and the sheen of exertion upon his sweat-stained brow. He must have been exhausted at by now. For the man had not slept at all yet that night, she was sure of it, and she could not help but worry for him.

There was another loud, jostling bump, and Beth nearly cried out a warning that they had hit something, but then she realized: they'd made it.

They had reached the north shore.

Daryl did not bother mooring the boat, for there was nowhere to tie it, only reeds and muddy marsh and then, beyond…the dark, blackness of the night forest. He leaped out first, and swore softly as his boots sank into the mud. Beth did not need to be told, but as soon as he was facing her once more, she leaned slightly out of the boat, and tossed him his crossbow, which he caught easily in one hand.

In the wavering light from the flames dancing across the water, she could just make out the contours of his face, and saw him tilt his head in a quick nod that conveyed more than words: _"We did it. We made it."_ Then he shouldered his weapon with a grunt—of relief, or perhaps exhaustion—and extended his hand to her.

Quickly, she grabbed their pack from the bottom of the boat and reached out to him. She felt his hand, warm and strong in hers as he pulled her out of the rocking boat and guided her across the squelching mud.

As he helped her safely to shore, Beth could not stop herself from glancing back one, last time. From across the lake she could see the raging fire as it devastated the cabins and surrounding pines, as man-made structure and Nature alike transformed into smoke and ash before her eyes. As the tall flames rose ever higher, the water's dark surface reflected a fiery tower at once rising high into the heavens and sinking down into the depths below.

Daryl's strong grip on her hand tightened then, urging her onward. Turning away from the lake, Beth felt the ground reform, become solid once more beneath their boots, and then they were racing through the woods.

Thorny undergrowth clawed at their clothes, hanging moss and tangling vines attempted to strangle them at every turn, branches whipped savagely at their faces, and yet still Daryl held on tightly to her hand. They ran, and ran, leaving the lake, the cabins, the walkers, the strange figure—man, woman, or neither, she still did know—and the all-consuming fire behind them.

Their strides matched as they sprinted together, hands clasped. Beth could not tell who grasped whose hand harder, but she was grateful. For, even though the light from the distant fire still filtered eerily through the trees, they soon moved further and further into the heart of the forest. There, it was pitch-dark once more, and she did not know what she would do if she lost him now.

Deep in the woods, beneath towering trees, Beth felt once more the utter blackness of this moonless night. Not even the faint starlight would shine upon them here. She heard the snap and crack of bone-dry sticks beneath their feet with each step, and she clung ever more tightly to Daryl's hand, her lifeline in this place of darkness so complete it had consumed even their shadows. What lurked here, she could not know, and she prayed silently to whatever deity still ruled these woods that it was only the familiar night-creatures that stirred in the impenetrable, surrounding blackness.

They moved swiftly and silently, save for their heaving, gasping breaths. And, perhaps, they ran more than a little heedlessly—for their aim was singular: to put as much distance between themselves and the madman that had rent this night asunder in fire and flame. And so it was that Beth stumbled upon the thick mass of tangled roots of the forest floor, as though the darkness had reached out and tried to claim her once more. And yet, Daryl was there first. As she tripped, somehow he caught her. Somehow, he managed to roll beneath her to break her fall, and together they tumbled down the steep side of a ravine, tumbled for what seemed like an eternity, to the ground.

A thick bed of leaves cushioned their fall, and they lay there for a long moment at the base of what Beth figured to be a massive tree, judging by the giant roots digging into her back. She had landed sprawled halfway upon the dried leaves, halfway on top of her companion, and as his broad chest rose and fell in short, heaving breaths beneath her own, she guessed him no more able to speak than she in that moment.

With eyes squeezed shut against the enclosing darkness, she buried her face into Daryl's chest. Once more, she could hear the thrumming beat of the war drum within his breast, and could feel his hot breath against her hair. In the span of one deep breath, he had already brought his arms around her trembling form, and was holding her tightly against his own body. Was he shaking too, or had she just imagined it? Perhaps, he thought to hold her thus keep her from freezing, for a cold mist had risen, as the chill night air met the still-warm earth. Or, perhaps, he too was a drowning man, and she his only lifeline in that deep, dark ocean of a night.

In that misty hollow, amidst the frosted leaves, beneath the roots of that great tree, through that darkest of nights, they held on silently to one another. Their breaths mingled as one and rose like smoke into the air. Somehow, Beth knew they'd have been unable to stir even if they'd wanted to, not even if the infernal fire had reached across the forest and found them. She had wrapped her legs around his, her booted heels digging into him. With their legs entwined thus, she could barely feel where her own small body ended and where his began. She recalled earlier, thinking herself frail and him strong, but tonight it did not seem to matter.

For tonight there was no Beth and no Daryl, only one, infinite being, cradled in the bosom of the chill earth, nestled beneath the fading stars.

…

They remained clinging fiercely to one another, locked in that embrace, until the first cold light of dawn pierced the autumn canopy. As the heavy mist began to dissipate, as the first tentative rays of morning light came through the trees above, Beth opened her eyes once more.

She was greeted by the sight of gnarled and tangled roots, covered in thick, green moss, of brown and gold leaves, encrusted with frost, and of the man beneath her. Daryl still lay with his back to the tree, and he was warm and still, save for his steady breathing. Stiff and tired, so very tired, Beth did not want to move, snuggled as she was into his chest. She could feel both the plaid flannel shirt and the cold leather of his vest beneath her cheek. His arms were still around her, hard and strong, and warm, so warm. She knew she would regret losing that warmth once the inevitable moment came when he would let go.

But he did not let go, not right away. Beth lifted her face to his, to find his eyes, to search for answers to questions only half-formed in her mind. But as she did, her lips nearly brushed against his, so close was his face now to hers.

She scarcely moved then, and went utterly still there in his arms. Like a cottontail caught in a snare, she somehow knew that to struggle now against her fate would be useless. But her companion did not stir either; perhaps he was entrapped in the same stillness of the moment.

Finally, Beth looked down, looked away, looked anywhere but at his face—for she was blushing fiercely now. Instead, she placed her hand upon his arm and mindlessly played with the new rips and tears in his black denim jacket. The one she had chosen for him. There was an especially angry rend in his sleeve, at his elbow. _What happened here?_ she wondered with a shot of fear.

Her fingers motioning to the ripped sleeve, she looked up at him questioningly. "You hurt?" It was the first that she had spoken for a long time. Her voice in that moment sounded distant, ancient, as if it no longer belonged to her.

Daryl eyes darted to where she poked and prodded at the tear. "This? Nah, walker tried to get me. Got my jacket instead." He looked down at her intently where she lay, nearly upon his chest. "You saved my ass, Greene. Makin' me put this on." His eyes shone bright but his tone went suddenly serious. "Thank you."

He brought his hand up her face then. Cradled there in that rough warmth, Beth closed her eyes once more. With a small sigh she leaned into his touch, and unthinking, brought her hand up to rest, just for a moment, against his own.

"Jesus, Beth…"

Her eyes blinked open, confused. Daryl's face now held the strangest expression.

"'The hell you worryin' about me for?" He sounded upset. "Your hand…you're bleedin'."

Moving her fingers away from his, Beth held them front of her face. "Oh." Blood indeed dripped from twin deep cuts, sticky and dark, down across her palm, soaking the edge of the sleeve of her sweater. "Must've been the glass," she muttered, more to herself than to her companion.

She remembered it now, the vase she'd smashed into the walker's face back on that porch. That porch that had surely by now burned to ashes. Amidst the fire and the fear of it all, and then in the long, cold night of running and finally, clinging, Beth had not felt a thing. Perhaps the fear and cold night air had frozen her blood, kept her from feeling the deep, aching sting of the cuts. Somehow, she'd managed to hold Daryl's bow aloft for their journey across the lake without even noticing. Somehow, she'd held tightly onto his hand throughout their flight through the pitch-black forest, without feeling any pain at all.

Despite the fact that she was practically lying on top of him, Daryl did not waste a moment. "Here," he said. And without another word he gently took hold of her, and she felt his grip upon her wrist as he brought her bleeding fingers to his lips.

Transfixed, she watched as one finger and then the other disappeared into the man's mouth, as he slowly, carefully sucked the blood from her wounds. His tongue tickled against her as he lathed the lacerations, and she did not know whether to laugh or gasp at the sensation of being licked as though by a wild animal. Her eyes found his, and she trembled to catch sight of the feral glint therein. For a moment it seemed that he might lick her clean to the bone, right down to the marrow.

But soon, far too soon, he was finished. She was still staring as he returned her hand to her, for his own was now red and dark with blood. Her blood.

He spoke again. "So, Greene. Got somethin' in that magic bag of yours I can wrap it with?"

The lightheartedness in his tone was, in that moment, more startling to her than if he'd growled. She composed herself. _Clean. I need somethin' clean._

With her uninjured hand she reached beside her and rummaged through their pack. She felt the handle of her knife then, and pulled it out, tucked it into her belt. Finally, she would be fully armed again.

Reaching back into the pack, she did not even attempt to look but quickly pulled out the next thing she grasped. The soft, flowing fabric ran like water through her fingers; she did not need to see it to know what it was.

Daryl lifted a brow. "You sure? I can—"

"Just do it," Beth silenced him.

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. And then he reached to his side and pulled out his knife, which flashed in the morning light. Without another word, he sliced into the blue sundress. He used the edge of the big weapon to start the tear, but then he sheathed the knife and proceeded to rip a great long strip off with his teeth. She watched as he wrapped her wounds, slow and careful, and when he was finished his eyes met hers.

"There," he rasped. "All done."

"T-thank you." She was still pressed up against him there beneath the cavernous roots of the tree, and for the span of many, slow breaths, neither of them moved from that spot.

Eventually, Daryl shifted slightly, and she took the hint—it was well-past time to get up, time to get moving again. For a moment, she thought she could have lain there against him, beneath the sky, at the base of the tree, amidst the frost melting on the brown leaves, all morning. For a moment, she had thought—

But she shook her head, and moved away, removed herself from his side, so he could stand up unencumbered and shoulder his weapon.

Beth could not remember how she herself managed to stand, whether she had risen of her own volition, swaying on unsteady legs, or if Daryl had reached down, grasped her uninjured hand, and pulled her, gently, to her feet. All she knew was that she stood before him now.

She hefted the pack onto her back and brushed the damp, clinging leaves off her jeans. "Water," she croaked, her throat feeling as though she'd inhaled the smoke of an entire burning forest. "We need water." _We'll find another stream…somewhere…_

But her thoughts trailed away to nothingness under the scrutiny of Daryl gaze. He did not speak in answer, but through the slants of his eyes he studied her face closely, as though to ascertain if she were indeed well enough to move on.

She stood her ground and stared back at him, quietly defiant. So what if her hand was injured? So what if she felt dizzy with dehydration? She could still hold her knife. She could still run.

Perhaps he sensed her unflagging determination, for after a moment he nodded solemnly. And then his hand was there, his fingers lingering on her shoulder, and they were striding together, side by side, through the swiftly-dissipating mist, through the morning dew-drenched forest.

As the soft chirruping of birds in the overheard branches filled the air, as the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath their boots echoed softly around them, some of the tension Beth had carried with her since the moment she'd awoken in the pitch blackness began to disappear. It did not take long before she gave in to the calming presence of the wilderness, let it seep slowly back into the darkest chambers of her heart.

There, the peace and the calm now met with tempered steel, as delicate as any fine-edged blade, as strong as any iron that has been forged, over time, in the heat of countless, raging fires.

…


	7. Pine For Summer

"I'll be gone someday."  
 _"Stop."_  
"I _will_. You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon."  
-'Still'

…

It was days like this that made Beth wonder if they really would just go on walking forever. That somehow, they would walk, and walk, right off the face of the earth.

Or maybe, she thought, grimacing at her still-bandaged fingers as she adjusted the backpack where it had started to dig into her shoulder, they'd walk themselves right into the ground.

Disappear and never be found.

All through that morning, they had pushed through the tiredness in their limbs, had pressed themselves onward, leaving the dark lake and the fire—still smoldering on its distant shore—far behind them. Ignoring the dull throbbing in her fingers and the burning in her calves and thighs, Beth had focused only on that task: _don't falter, don't look back_. And so, with eyes fixed forward, they'd hiked through forest and meadow alike, looking ahead, always ahead, never behind.

A silence had stretched between them, laden with feeling. Daryl hadn't spoken much at all since he'd dressed her wounded fingers beneath the shade of that great tree, as the sun had broken upon them where they'd lain together in that mist-filled hollow. And Beth…well, she had not attempted to speak. For her throat felt as parched as a field in a summer drought and she thought that she could not have uttered a single word aloud even if she'd tried, could not even have hummed a single tune.

It mattered not, she supposed, for words had long been of little use to them during such long days of walking out there in the wild. Expressions, gestures—even thoughts—now passed between them as naturally as the birds that flitted from branch to branch in the trees around them. If anything, she knew that too much speech could be dangerous. Not the noise itself perhaps, but the distraction. Too much talking in the wrong place, and they might not notice death coming for them until far too late. It hadn't stopped her chattering away to him, though, all these weeks. Hadn't stopped her laughing. Hadn't stopped her singing.

But, exhausted and strained as she was—as they both were—that morning, Beth thought that perhaps, just for one day at least, she could focus solely on breathing, on putting one boot in front of the another, on making it another step ahead.

As the day had progressed, she'd noticed that her companion seemed to linger at her side, seemed to lack his usual long, quick stride. Perhaps, he too was flagging after everything. Perhaps he was reluctant to press on even the slightest bit ahead, reluctant to let himself outpace her. She knew she was a bit slower than usual today. Or, she thought with a surge of warmth inside, perhaps he too was reluctant to lose something of that quiet, dark night.

In the brightness of the day Daryl was a shadowing presence, but reassuring all the same. For every so often, through the fabric of her sweater, she would feel the palm of his hand pressing warm and strong against the small of her back, every now and then she would feel his fingers resting lightly, gently upon her shoulder. In those silent moments, she would have believed it if someone had told her that this man's unwavering touch was the only language she would ever again understand.

…

They'd walked through the morning and into the afternoon, stopping only briefly at small, trickling stream to refill their water bottles. When they had drunk long and deep, sharing a single bottle between them, they'd pressed on, aware of the distance they still hoped to cover that day. After that briefest of respites, they had not even stopped for sustenance, but had forged on and on, all the way out of the forest where they'd sheltered, to skirt along the edge of wide, abandoned fields.

Such dogged persistence had yielded results, for soon enough they'd come to another dense, wooded area into which they had entered without hesitation. For how many miles they had now walked, Beth could not say. And yet still they remained silent as the creatures that now shadowed their steps, wary and wild, and exhausted, tired, thirsty, with hunger clawing, as persistent as any walker, at their insides.

Finally, as evening fell, as the night sky unfolded, cold and clear above them, they came upon a place where wild oaks rose like monoliths along the edge of a ravine, a place where a thick fall of leaves now crunched beneath their boots. The sliver of the newly-waxing moon had risen, just barely visible behind the curtain of moss that hung from the branches and swayed gently in the night breeze.

After the night they'd had, after the long, tiring day of shared silences and wary looks, they needed no words, just the briefest of knowing nods. They halted as one, both sensing the safety of this place.

Beth's father had once told her that any tree can grow tall in the shelter of a forest. But only the strongest and oldest oaks grow to be as wide as a church door, with roots that reach deep, and with great, spreading branches that seem to hold very sky in their embrace. And so, it seemed to her that these oaks must hold in their ancient hearts a memory of times and eras long-gone. For they and this secret place they stood over like great sentinels seemed, if not untouched—for she had come to believe there was no place on earth now untouched—then untroubled. Untroubled by time, untroubled by any creature…untroubled by the turning of the world.

So it was that they made camp there, working together to string the cans around and between the massive trunks. With her fingers still bandaged, Beth was slower, clumsier than usual at attempting to untangle the long wire. But that did not explain Daryl's inability to perform the familiar task. It did not explain callused thumb and hard knuckle brushing against delicate finger and soft palm, so that their hands trembled and their breaths caught in their throats. Until they had to pause and turn away, pretending to unloosen a knot here or there.

Somehow, the task was completed; they set up camp and started their fire. In continued silence, Beth sat down upon the leaf-strewn ground across from Daryl, who reposed upon a large fallen log, his crossbow resting beside him. He was sitting slightly hunched, sharpening his knife upon the whetstone that he kept in one of the pockets of his vest, staring at the blade with great intensity.

After a time, the fire began to die down. The logs glowed orange, sparking and crackling between them. Beth poked at the embers with a stick, not truly wanting to keep the fire going, but reluctant to let it go out altogether, either. Not just yet.

There was the faintest rustling in the underbrush, barely perceptible amidst the other night-noises. But Beth caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes, glowing green, just behind the oak at the farthest edge of their camp. It had been following them for some time now. She knew it wouldn't dare come any closer. And even if it did, she was not afraid. For in that moment she felt a kinship with the wild thing. No, there were many things to fear in the world, but this lone creature, drawn perhaps by the chance to scavenge by their fire, was not one of them.

It was then that Daryl looked up and the tired lines around his eyes, though unsmiling, softened as he met her searching gaze. _Don't worry. Just a coyote._ He didn't need to speak the reassurance out loud. He hadn't needed to for a long time.

She looked straight back at him, into his eyes, and answered, in kind, with wordless smile: _I_ _know._

There was a sudden sound of yipping, far away. Then, an answering yip close by, followed by another soft rustling in the bushes. And then she saw the eyes no more.

As Daryl resumed his work, Beth sat amongst the leaves with her legs drawn to her chest and her arms resting upon her knees. As the tiredness of the long day spread through her, she ached to lay her head down. But she would not sleep, not yet. She knew that Daryl had intended to keep watch once more tonight, but she could not allow it. Not tonight. No, the man had done enough; surely he was about to collapse from exhaustion.

Hesitating no longer, Beth stood up and walked purposefully around the fire toward where her companion sat, immersed in his task at hand. As she passed him, Daryl paused mid-strike but did not look up from his work. Perhaps he assumed she was stepping away to the edge of their little camp to relieve herself. She moved behind him, treading softly, circling as warily as one of the many small creatures that still stirred in the dark forest around them.

As she approached, Daryl paused again, his head titled toward the sound of her soft footfalls upon the leaves. She almost laughed out loud; in that moment, he reminded her of a large puppy. She tiptoed up to the fallen log to stand behind him and she remained there for a spell, looking over his shoulder.

She was not used to seeing his broad shoulders covered as they were; in all these weeks and months on the run she had grown accustomed to the slope of his bare, tanned skin. And yet, she had to admit that, ripped and torn now as it was, the black denim jacket she'd chosen for him suited him well. He still looked very much himself, and yet somehow, different. She wondered if it was possible for a man to appear more forbidding and yet more cuddly at the same time.

Daryl was of course well-aware of her presence there at his back. And yet still he had not stopped, but was working away, moving the knife against the stone in careful, methodical strokes. She stood quietly, observing his purposeful motions for a time. She tried to be patient, tried to wait for him to finish. She really did. But soon, her tired legs won the battle and she was unable to stand any longer. And so, she sat herself down upon the damp, mossy log beside him. If she leaned slightly into his side as she took her seat, Daryl seemed to take no notice.

Or perhaps it was simply that he did not mind. Didn't mind that she was interrupting his careful process, didn't mind her nosing her way in.

She sidled closer and rested her head ever-so lightly upon his shoulder. Finally, she broke the silence. "Sharp 'nough for you, yet?"

The man did not skip a beat. "Only one way to find out," he said. And then he reached into their pack and brought out one of the pink lady apples that she'd placed within, only yesterday. It seemed a million years ago now. With a quick flick of the blade, he sliced the apple completely in half.

It seemed her companion's weapon was indeed sharp enough.

Daryl passed her half of the apple, placing it right into her hands. Then, immediately, he began to consume his own piece, approaching it ravenously. Despite the searing hunger gnawing within her, Beth bit into her slice delicately, savoring each small bite.

Surely, these days it was worth it, to make a good thing last as long as you could.

She remained sitting close beside him as the night deepened. So close, in fact, that her arms brushed against his with every movement, with every breath. Daryl had sheathed his knife now and was sitting silent and calm, a solid wall of warmth at her side. Beth found that she had neither the wish nor the willpower to return to her spot, so far away at the other side of the fire.

No, she had no intention of removing herself, but would remain beside him, her uninjured hand resting there between them, gazing into the glowing embers.

…

Sitting together on the fallen log, the silence stretched out between them once more.

Looking back, Beth could not say how it had happened. All she knew was that his hand had been there, waiting, as though it had always been, and always would be. She shivered with the inevitability of it, that moment she had known would come, when their hands clasped, their fingers intertwined. And so it was that she felt her companion draw her toward him, gently pulling her closer until her head came to rest upon his shoulder once more.

Side by side they gazed unspeaking into the last, burning coals nestled there amidst the ashes. And when their fire had gone out and all was dark save the faint glow of the slivered moon and the little, winking stars, still Daryl did not let go.

Whether he guided her then, or she led him, they knew not, for like the unfamiliar banks of the swift-flowing stream, this too was uncharted territory.

With fingers still entwined, they lay down together upon the waiting earth.

Daryl lowered himself to the ground with a faint groan of exhaustion, stretching out his legs amongst the crisp, fallen leaves, keeping his back to the fire. Beth felt herself tugged gently down beside him, and her companion made sure she was securely nestled there between himself and the large log. He tucked her against him, so that her head rested in the crook of his neck. Only then did he finally let go of her hand, so that he might very briefly lift it up to her head, and brush his fingers against her hair and her ear.

As she settled amidst the leaves beside him, trying to ignore the fallen acorns digging into her side, she let out a shuddering sigh into his neck, a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding.

The night-wind gusted, bringing down a shower of leaves from the branches above and stirring a cloud of dust and soil from the ground below. Beth didn't mind; they sure as hell weren't anything resembling clean anymore. In another world, in another life, well-heeled folk would have turned up their noses at them. A redneck drifter and a farmer's daughter, covered in dust and sweat, and blood. So much blood. _Maybe we do look like a pair of dirty wanderers,_ she thought, and it made her smile. _But that's not what we are. Not really._

What they were now, she did not know. Not how to describe it in words, at least. But surely, they were more than the dirt, more than the sweat, and more than the blood that had stained them upon this journey. And yet…she thought of her father once more. For had he not taught her that all things came from dust, and would return to dust, in the end?

As the wind blew again, stirring the leaves in the trees above them as well as those on the ground below, she shivered, and snuggled further into Daryl's side.

"You cold?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Not when I'm with you." It was the God's-honest truth.

"Hmmph," he snorted into her hair.

Daryl fell silent again for a while, and she thought perhaps the man might actually for once be trying to sleep.

But then he spoke, in a voice so quiet that at first Beth could barely make out what he was saying. "I was thinkin'…" he started.

"Yeah?" she asked into his neck.

He gulped, as if finding it hard to form words. She waited, though she knew she might be waiting all night for the man to speak.

"Do you wanna…" he trailed off again.

Beth had no idea what he was getting at, but she thought she might assuage his fears for him. Without a second thought she blurted, "I do."

She felt him stiffen beside her. "You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"Whatever it is, Daryl, you know I'll want to. Always do, don't I?"

"Guess so…" he said carefully. She could feel his unsteady breathing against her hair.

"Well?" she prodded him. _What the hell's got him so spooked?_

"D'you wanna… go huntin'…with, uh, me?" he managed finally. If Beth didn't know any better, she'd have thought he sounded almost… _shy_. "Don't have to be tomorrow," he added hastily, "what with your hand still healin' n' all. An' maybe you don't…maybe you don't want to anymore, not after…"

 _Is that it?_ Beth could have laughed, but instead she snuggled into him further. "So, you think I'm a 'fraidy-cat?"

"Huh? No, I just—"

"Think I'd get scared off that easy?" she grinned. "Nothin's gonna keep me from my trackin', Mr. Dixon. Not even some creepy-ass cabin with a crazy axe-murderer. Or whatever the hell that was back there."

It was the first time either of them had truly given voice to the almost supernatural occurrence that night at the lake. That she was able to make light of it seemed to give Daryl heart, for she felt him heave a sigh beneath her. "You sure?" he asked.

"Hell yeah," she said. She paused then, fiddling absentmindedly with the tattered sleeve of his jacket. "Do I get to shoot your bow again?"

He shifted slightly. "When you can hold it again, yeah."

"Fair 'nough," she sighed. "But you gotta promise me one thing."

Daryl stilled beside her, waiting. "What?"

"That you'll play it with me. Our game."

"Still think you can get away from me, dontcha?" He laughed, deep in his throat. "You know I catch you every damn time."

Daryl was right, and she knew it. And yet, she also knew she was faster than him, especially over longer distances. "Maybe I just _let_ you catch me," she sniffed.

"Or maybe I let you let _me_ ," he teased.

"Say what you want, Mr. Dixon," she continued, undeterred, "but you know I'm faster than you."

He let out a snort. But he seemed to consider it all the same. "Alright, Greene. You got yourself a deal," he said finally. And then, so fast it made her squeak in surprise, he poked her side—a quick, dastardly tickle.

Beth had not the strength to get him back, not tonight. But she found she couldn't resist, and with her finger she gently prodded him right in the belly. Before he could react, she snatched her hand away, like a kitten batting at a newfound toy.

Beneath her, Daryl flinched and grunted in surprise, but he did not retaliate.

Settling herself back into his side, she let it sink in: they'd be tracking together again. Hunting together again. Running together again. At first light. The thought had her grinning up the night sky like a kid on Christmas Eve.

Daryl must've followed her upward gaze, for he nudged her gently, and lifted his free hand a moment then, pointed through the swaying branches. "Look," he said, and she thought she heard a childlike delight in his voice to match her own. "Orion's back."

And indeed, Beth could just see him where he lay on his side in the starry sky, the tips of his arms peeking out behind the lowest branches of the trees.

Orion. The Hunter. The herald of winter.

"Means it's huntin' season," Daryl said.

"But Daryl, you said it's _always_ huntin' season nowadays."

He grunted beside her. "You got a damn good memory, girl."

She smiled at that. "You know it." She paused a moment, thinking. "So where's his bow? I don't see it."

Daryl grunted. "Ain't got one. He's got some kind of stick, or club. Somethin' real primitive," he pointed upward. "See?"

Beth squinted into the sky, trying to make it out. "No bow?" she asked with a smile. "Just a big stick?"

"Ain't nothin' _just_ about it. Best not underestimate a man with a big stick," Daryl said. "Strip it down to its simplest form, a bow ain't nothin' but a big stick anyway."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Dixon," Beth giggled. "It's just…he doesn't sound like a real hunter if he doesn't have a bow."

"A _real_ hunter's handy with almost anythin'," her companion grumbled, sounding oddly agitated. "What do you think this knife's for, Greene? Or do I gotta show you again?"

"Maybe you do," she said with a grin.

Daryl grunted again, but made no further reply.

As she pressed closer into his side, snuggling into his warmth, she had to admit that here, under the watchful gaze of one hunter and the embrace of another, she had never felt safer or more secure in her entire life, before or after the turn. She breathed deeply into Daryl's neck, into his shoulder, inhaling the woodsmoke and sweat and leather of him. It was mighty distracting. Distracting enough that she no longer noticed the acorns digging into her side.

Another silence crept over them and began to settle around them like dust. Beth kept her eyes fixed upon the stars above.

"So," she said after a while, "what's he huntin', anyway? With that big ol' stick of his."

It was dark, but she heard his rasp close to her ear. "Maybe girls who ask too many questions, and don't let a man get some shut-eye," he grumbled.

Of course, he was only teasing; Beth knew him all-too well. _As if he'd actually be sleepin' already._ So she poked him again, just once, on his side, and told him airily: "You're the one who brought it up, remember?"

"Hmmph," he huffed.

She expected him to turn over then, to put his back to her as he had so many times before, but instead he remained as he lay, his hand now resting firmly upon his newly-sharpened knife, his face turned upward toward the stars.

As Beth gazed through the overhanging branches and up into the star-strewn sky, she mused on ancient hunters and their big sticks, and how constellations might have acquired such fanciful names in times gone by. It was then that she remembered something she'd learned, once upon another life: that it took a vast number of light-years for the light of each distant sun to reach the earth. Even now, these very stars could be dead, or dying. The thought filled her with a melancholy wonder. _They may be gone, but their light still reaches us._

Maybe some were already gone, but surely others were only just being born and would long outlast this forsaken earth and the star around which it orbited. _If only we had a spaceship,_ she thought with sudden whimsy, _we could get off this rock, fly somewhere else, long-ago and far away. Start over on a new world, just the two of us._ The thought of other stars, orbited by other worlds, some just born, some still living, some ending, was both oddly comforting and yet, overwhelming. She choked back awed tears, and with some effort she restrained her hand from reaching out as though to catch one of the small pinpoints of light, as thought they were but fireflies blinking in the dark.

As though this were but a midsummer's eve, rather than a night on the brink of winter.

Beth almost envied those far-away suns, then. Envied their ability to traverse space and time, to gaze down upon distant worlds. On the farm, before the turn, she had been a creature of earth and soil, content to live and dance upon the green grass, to gallop on horseback across a dew-drenched field. Content to glance up at a night sky now and then, and make a wish upon a falling star as long summers faded into autumn.

And she was still a creature of the earth, for there was some part of her yet that longed to remain here in this very spot, to sink beneath the soil, to lie amongst these moldering leaves, to fall into the dark embrace, to ride out the winter, the great cold death of the earth, nestled there beside her companion. Not to die, but to rest, to dream, to sleep, to hibernate like a pair of wild creatures through the dark times ahead, and rise again with the light come spring.

But even as a great tree, whose roots reach ever downward to the deep wellsprings of the earth, so did Beth now feel the urge to rise higher and higher toward the heavens, to stretch her arms upward toward a sky filled with unnumbered stars.

It was then that Daryl brought his hand up once more to where her head rested upon his shoulder, and she felt his rough, hunter's fingers catch upon her hair, brush against her ear, lingering there just for a moment. She could have trembled with it, could have whimpered into his neck, but she kept herself as still as young filly that has only just learned to accept the touch of man. He could not have known how his touch had anchored her, had rooted her, had pulled her back down to earth.

And if in that moment she thought that she might just prefer this new and breathless game to the one they played during the day, she did not speak it out loud.

Instead, she took a deep breath and, for the first time since they'd fled the lake, she began to hum to herself:

 _I close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment's gone_  
 _All my dreams, pass before my eyes a curiosity_  
 _Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind_

At the sound, Daryl had shifted at her side, and Beth wondered for a moment if she should stop. She knew he wouldn't sleep, not deeply at least, not while she lay here beside him, exposed to the night. She knew he would catch only the briefest of snatches here and there. But even a man like Daryl Dixon needed proper rest, needed to recharge himself, for it seemed to her he was operating on nearly empty. She thought that if she sang softly enough, perhaps she could soothe him to sleep, like she had back in that empty stable so long ago.

 _Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea_  
 _All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see_  
 _Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind_

 _Now, don't hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky_  
 _It slips away, and all your money won't another minute buy_  
 _Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind…_  
 _Everything is dust in the wind…_

Even before she'd finished humming the old, familiar tune—one of the first her brother had taught her to strum on his guitar, Daryl had gone still and quiet beside her. Not asleep no, not yet. She wondered if the melancholy words had only succeeded in keeping him awake.

Perhaps they were, like the dust and leaves, about blow away any minute. All the same, Beth's fingers found Daryl's leather vest and curled around it, fiercely. _It doesn't make any difference,_ she thought. _We're still here. We still matter._

She knew then what she had already decided long ago: she would hang on, until there was nothing left but dust in her hands.

Until the end of what was left of this world.

If only she could sleep here forever, beneath the endless sky, beside the ashes of their fire…beside _him._

But _forever_ was still a distant dream, as distant as the stars above. For tomorrow they would wake, and rise to face another day of walking the earth.

…

Days dawned, mornings arrived, bright and cold. Now, falling leaves drifted across their faces, kissing them awake.

On such mornings, after they had rubbed the sleep from their eyes, squinting in the warm rays filtering through the trees, and after they had relieved swollen bladders, silently keeping watch for one another as usual, they would sit for a spell in front the embers of their fires. And there, before facing each new day, they would stoke a new, little fire to life, and share cups of the instant coffee Beth had found at the lake in one of the hunter's cabins.

The moon waxed on steadily. Days passed, though how many Beth could not say. The wounds on her fingers healed cleanly; Daryl's unusual method had proven highly effective. Her bleeding came and went, and she had never been so grateful for the items she'd found back there at that lakehouse that was no more. She still had the little comb, though it had proven just as ineffective out there in the forest as it had back at the cabin. As each day passed, Daryl's hair seemed to grow longer and wilder than ever, and no amount of combing could tame those dark tangles. And Beth did not need a mirror to know that, as always, her own ponytail and braid were anything but tidy.

Like sun-faded photographs in a long-abandoned album, the events of each new day grew less and less clear in her mind. Walking, running, hiding, hunting—for she had indeed resumed her tracking and bow-hunting lessons—all blended together. Only fleeting images, sounds, smells remained. Squirrels scurrying from tree to tree, burying their acorns in the ground, readying themselves for winter. Decaying soil, moist and wet from autumn rains. Leaves, at times sliding, at times crunching under her boots. The feeling of the bone hilt of her knife in her hand, the heft of the crossbow in her arms.

And Daryl, at her side, or just there, at the edge of her vision, following close behind. Daryl, crouched down beside her, reminding her now how to tie a knot to make a rabbit-snare, his fingers brushing against hers as he did. Daryl holding up his side of the bargain—for he'd kept his promise, had played the game with her again as she'd asked. Once, when she had least expected it, he had indeed chased her through a morning wood. The beams of early sunlight had shone softly upon the world, turning leaf and moss and slender trunk of tree to purest gold. And at the end, he had caught her up in his arms, had lifted her for the briefest of moments off the ground so that she'd shrieked with laughter and delight.

And yet, even moments such as these seemed to melt into one another.

Time folded on itself. Days devoured other days whole.

It was the nights she remembered.

As each evening fell, more and more chill, one thing remained the same. Ever since the lake and their flight from the towering flames, ever since that eternal night they had spent entwined as one beneath the moonless sky, it was no longer enough. No longer enough to sit across from one another, staring into their fire. No longer enough, to leave the closeness solely for sleep. Now, they sat always side by side on the leafy ground or upon a fallen log, watching their fire burn itself to ash and dust. And if Beth's hand grasped Daryl's or his hand found hers, it mattered not, for like fluttering moths drawn to a candle's light, their fingers always, inevitably, found one another.

Clasped thus together in the dark of night they would sit, lost in the moment. And in those moments Beth would find herself humming nameless tunes—songs of her own composing. It was something she had not done in years. Something, she knew, she had only done in the days of _before_. In the days of contentment.

" _We'll pine for summer…  
and we'll buy…hmm, hmm, hmm…"_

As she lilted strange and previously unheard melodies, Daryl made no protest. If anything, while she hummed, she thought she felt his hand squeeze hers more tightly. Perhaps, she had only imagined it. Perhaps it was simply that, with his eyes fixed as they were upon the fire, and with his ears attuned to the night-noises in the surround forest, he did not notice.

Or, perhaps—and the thought warmed her more than any other—he truly did not mind.

To think thus made her smile, made her hope, made her glow inwardly with pleasure and a strange sense of power. For if she could reach out and touch this man with music of her own making, she felt that she could do anything.

And so, they would hold fast until they found themselves lying down together. Until once more Beth felt herself tucked beneath his chin, the stubble of his beard catching upon the wisps of her hair. Until her head rested upon his chest, or she'd buried her face into his neck. Until they were securely nestled amongst roots and leaves. Until their shared warmth guarded them against the encroaching cold of the earth.

Even then, some nights their clasped hands refused to untangle, and would remain as tightly entwined as the chain-links that had once surrounded their home.

At such times, their weapons remained exposed to the chill air, the hilts of their knives lingering long and lonely into the night, cold as weathered bone.

…

Beth didn't know what she had expected. That they would walk and walk until they came to the farthest edges of the earth? That the forest would stretch eternally? That they could hide within its deep, dark embrace forever, until the world really did, finally, come to an end?

For it seemed they had come again to where the vestiges of civilization still stood, stark reminders of life prior to the turn.

And, as before, the first sign of a once-flourishing human presence that they encountered was a literal one.

They'd been sheltering in a forest of tall, shadowy pines for several days, when in the midst of a tracking lesson they came upon a large map on a wooden frame with the name of the very woodland in which they stood printed in faded yellow block-letters. The map proudly displayed pathways that had surely long-since disappeared, trails surely long overgrown. And there in the center was the familiar red dot with an arrow declaring:

YOU ARE HERE

 _Yes_ , Beth thought, _we're still here._

They paused to gaze upon the wooden sign for only a few moments, and then nodded to one another. Without a word, they moved on.

If this had been, as the sign had suggested, just a day hike through the woods, they would have been walking through heavily managed and well-marked paths, not trudging cross-country through pricker-filled underbrush. They'd have been going at a leisurely pace, stopping frequently for long spells to set up their picnics at overlooks and waterfalls with fancy names. If this had simply been a camping trip, Beth would've thought they were nearing the end of their journey. But this was no summer vacation. This was their life now, for good or ill. And surely, the only way such a journey would end now was in death…or unholy resurrection. And Beth was not ready for either. Not yet. Not while there were still so many things to _do_.

 _And someone to do them with,_ she thought with a strange sensation.

All the same, as the sign had foretold, they had nonetheless reached the end of the wood. For there, in front of them, only a little way down from the sign, stretched a road.

It was not a very large road. Even in its heyday it likely would not have seen much use. But even crumbling and weeded-over as it was, as she looked upon it, Beth could feel every long-gone rumble of each car, van, and truck right in her bones. She sensed the danger inherent, looming. Here at the ending of the world, it seemed odd that something as mundane as roads still cut their way through the trees, paved pathways as ugly and blackened as the arteries of the undead.

Where such roads might lead these days, Beth was not sure. Perhaps, eventually, to some place that had once been vibrant and full of life. Now, surely nothing but a ghost town. And likely a literal one, teeming with unquiet revenants.

She looked to her companion, a wordless glance conveying her indecision and dismay.

Daryl, reaching out to her in reassurance, could only shake his head, and nudge her forward. "Gotta keep movin'," was all he said.

For the first time in weeks, they left the heavily-wooded parkland behind. Even so, they nonetheless tried to keep to the shelter of the tree-line for as long as they could. But soon enough there was no avoiding the road, and no avoiding where the road led.

Each time they emerged from the trees, they now passed empty buildings, decaying remnants of a world that had never been built to last. Houses, shopping centers, schools, libraries—all appeared, to Beth's eyes, as though they had been left untended for centuries, not mere seasons.

Where there are roads there are towns, and where there are towns there will always be a church on each corner. And indeed, they passed several such fallen places of worship, now overgrown with ivy, paint flaking off their weathered siding, and windows boarded up. Beth recognized the desperation in those windows—that last, faint hope that nailed-together pieces of crossed wood might keep out the evils that now stalked the earth.

It was tempting, at times, to seek shelter within. Just for a night. But she knew in her heart that within those flimsy walls, beneath those crumbling roofs, there was no sanctuary to be found.

Using the silent signals of their hunts, they skirted behind overgrown backyards of housing developments, quiet as any thieves from the bygone days. The large, empty houses were just as tempting, but they dared not enter in broad daylight, not even to search for supplies. Any number of walkers—or people—could be lurking inside, and with only the two of them, clearing a large house was probably not worth the risk.

She tried not to think of the possibility that there might be some of the _living_ within those walls. Prison folk, even. Some days she still found it hard to believe that they had not encountered anyone. Had not seen single soul known to them since that fateful day. Yet, neither could she believe that they were truly all gone. That none of them had made it. Surely, _someone_ had to be out there. But even if they weren't, even if no one else from the prison had made it…

 _There's still good people_ , Beth had begun to reassure herself. She tried not to think of the old hunter they'd left in in the heart of the forest, slain by the hands of heartless men. Nor of the young couple whose lives had been stolen, who'd been left to float eternally at the bottom of a dark lake for some strange and uncanny purpose. No, as they made their way past each house, she tried not to think of anything but getting out of the town without being seen.

At first it had confounded her, that they had risked coming even as close as they had. Ever since they'd found themselves on the run, they had thus far avoided venturing directly into settlements, small towns, and subdivisions, choosing only to do so when in need of something in particular. So, it seemed to her that Daryl must've had some greater purpose in taking them so close to these once-populous areas. Perhaps he was indeed searching for something, for he seemed as focused as he did when hunting or tracking, examining each house from the outside as they passed behind it, as though to ascertain something about it. As though he held yet some impossible hope of finding, amongst these buildings, somewhere _safe_.

Beth thought of how he had been that morning and afternoon at the cabin overlooking the lake. Before she'd fallen in. And then realization crystallized in her mind: on his own, Daryl would not come sniffing around these houses, like a stray dog looking for a meal. Not for himself alone.

Following behind her companion as they edged along a wooden fence behind a particularly large house, the thought made her pulse quicken, her stomach tighten strangely. She felt touched, and yet oddly guilty at the same time. For she was no longer sure she even wanted to stay indoors, in an enclosed space. No longer sure that she wanted anything but the now-familiar shelter of the swaying branches of an old oak, and the comforting sight of the open, starry sky. To be _inside_ , she realized, might even bring with it a sense of entrapment, and far too many implications. Too many reminders of those long months when she'd so rarely set foot beyond the prison walls. Too many reminders of those they had now lost.

Perhaps her reluctance to venture within the rows of houses was more obvious than she'd thought. Or perhaps Daryl ultimately decided that such buildings stood too close together, or that their construction was too flimsy, too precarious to provide the sort of true safety he had hoped to find. All Beth knew was that they never stopped in a single one, not even to rest, but moved on and on.

Finally, they traveled beyond those suburbs to empty stretches of road dotted by rows of long-unused power lines. There they faced only the odd rest stop, corner store, or gas station, each guarded by faded, peeling billboards fluttering in the breeze—the tattered banners of some ancient kingdom.

It was only when they reached these lonely sentinels, these last, lingering signposts of civilization, that Beth let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

…

One by one, they put several towns behind them. As always, they preferred to stick to the woods and abandoned farm fields, but could not avoid the ruined remains of the old world completely. Now, they crossed just as many roads as they did streams. Rather than following riverbanks, they found themselves walking carefully along old roadside ditches and drains, choked with debris and flooded with autumn rains.

While the roads they encountered were just country lanes, really, not interstates, they left Beth feeling unsettled and exposed all the same. Even out in the countryside, the driveways, the broken-down fences, the rusted mailboxes, the dirt roads, the power lines they passed—all contributed to her sense of unease. Like a fox, or a coyote, or a wildcat, she felt an almost primal urge to hug the tree line, to remain always with something at her side or back.

Attuned as he had become to her needs, perhaps Daryl sensed this change, this shift in her being. And so, when even the reminders of man's former reign upon the earth grew too oppressive for them both, he would lead her back to darker, hidden places where the trees grew denser. Places where perhaps only wild things had ever roamed. There, Beth was able to rest easier, knowing they had less chance of meeting any man, either living or dead.

There were evenings when, after miles of walking on already-weary feet through sodden, overgrown fields, they might encounter a wall of chain-link fences topped by barbed wire. More often than not, the fence would display some ominous warning to _keep out_ of whatever factory or warehouse waited behind its locked gates. Even though she knew darn well there was no prison within those fences—and certainly no familiar folk, no Rick and Carl and little Judy, no Maggie and Glenn, and no father waiting for her within—Beth would nonetheless experience a painful, twisting stab in the gut at the sight of that linked wire, that which had for so long guarded their family and their former home.

Even with nightfall approaching, they would take one last, lingering look, and then trudge back through the wet and muddy fields, choosing instead the long way around. Never once did they consider seeking shelter within, instead preferring the cold night air and the moonlit shadows of the scattered groves of trees to whatever might be lurking in the dark corners of such abandoned places.

On one such night, after they'd finished setting up camp but before they had bedded down, Beth had attempted something different. Something new.

Why she had been so nervous when she'd approached him that first time, she could not explain. All she knew was that her heart seemed to have hurtled from her chest and lodged itself in her throat.

Moving carefully, cautiously toward her companion in the gathering darkness, she had picked her way toward the spot where where he stood guard. He'd been leaning against the base of an old hickory, his crossbow hanging at his side, his gaze wild and distant, as though he could discern something she could not. As though he could see far beyond the fragile borders of their camp, deep into the dark heart of the surrounding wood.

She'd hesitated then, just for a moment, for he had not acknowledged her approach. But she was no longer so easily deterred. Heart thumping, she'd stepped onto her tiptoes and lightly encircled her arms around her protector—a brief, silent gesture of thanks.

Like that evening on the dock, she'd caught him with his bow still in hand. Encumbered as he was by the hefty weapon, Beth had once again ended up doing most of the embracing. But she did not mind. She did not mind his stillness as she'd leaned into him, breathing him in deeply, enjoying the simple bliss of standing together, even if just for a moment. The comfort of pressing herself gently into his warm, hard body.

To her surprise, Daryl had not seemed to mind this addition to their nightly ritual. His forbearance had made her somewhat more bold, and once she'd realized he was not about to turn tail or push her away, she had begun to hold on tighter, to draw out each embrace longer. Long enough to nestle her head into his chest, uncaring if he heard the soft, contented sounds she made into him as she did. Sometimes, Daryl would even lower his bow to the cold earth beneath their feet, would let the weapon clatter to the ground amongst the fallen leaves. And then he would briefly, just briefly, bring his hands up to brush against her back.

There came an evening when they stopped to make camp in a small patch of stunted trees along the edge of a wide field. Every now and then Beth paused in the midst of stringing up the cans, thinking she saw, or maybe sensed something in the murky darkness beyond. Shadows, moving, swift and silent. Wild things as always, surely. Not walkers, she decided. Not men. But visions of the night of the lake rose to the forefront of her thoughts. How could she ever forget the large herd, emerging so suddenly from the depths of that wood? There at the distant shore of memory she could still see the menacing figure that had pursued them to the water's edge. A shiver ran through her.

Beth shook her head and turned away from the field. That place and its dark secrets had to be put away, like all the rest. _There's still good people_ , she insisted to herself for the hundredth time. _And one of them's standin' right here in front of me_.

Indeed, Daryl hovered just a pace or two away from her, examining a small branch to use for kindling. The man seemed absorbed in the simple task; tonight he seemed entirely unconcerned by any fleeting shadows. Beth sighed. No doubt her tired eyes were playing tricks. No doubt any strange shapes were naught but the conjurings of her own imagination.

She finished stringing the cans and moved to assist Daryl in gathering what dry tinder they could. After placing a little bundle of the least damp twigs she could find in the center of the grove, she turned to face her companion. His eyes flickered over her briefly, and then met hers. Holding his gaze, Beth lowered their backpack to the ground and stepped closer. Daryl didn't budge or even twitch, but remained rooted to the spot. Almost as if he'd been waiting for her.

It was all the invitation she needed; she closed the gap between them, automatically wrapping her arms around him tightly. With her face pressed up against his leather vest, she let out a contented sigh. A flush of warmth tingled through her as she realized: all day she had longed for this moment.

As she had anticipated, Daryl remained completely still for a few more breaths. But this time, he dropped the small branch he'd been carrying, and let his bow strap slide from his shoulder. This time, he brought his arms up, until they were all the way around her.

He held her quietly as the moon rose, as the mist gathered over the open field, as the hooting of the owls echoed softly around them. Closing her heavy lids, she rested against him, content for now to listen to each slow intake of his breath, each powerful beating of his heart. There was a brief moment when she could have sworn his lips brushed against the top of her head, but perhaps it was only the familiar scruff of his beard catching upon the stray wisps of her hair. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, and focused again on the rise and fall of his chest beneath her—as always, a steady, comforting rhythm.

A sudden noise pierced the stillness of the night, startling them both. The sound, an almost human shriek, echoed across the field and into the grove. Coyotes or foxes, maybe. Or their prey. If the heart-piercing sound reminded her of a wailing infant, she tried her hardest to ignore it. There was a rustling, another harsh cry, and then an eerie silence. The quiet at the end of a hunt. Oh, she knew it well. It hung over them, heavy as the mist that had settled upon the field beyond, cold as the dampness already creeping its way into her bones.

She shivered again; Daryl's arms tightened around her.

As that nebulous cold reached across the empty field and writhed its way into the small, sparse clump of trees where they stood, Beth began to tremble in earnest. Tonight, perhaps even the warmth of another living body wasn't quite enough to keep out the damp chill. It had been a long, tiring day of avoiding the eyes and ears of the dead. Her feet ached and she was in sore need of food and fire. And so it was with some reluctance that she eventually disentangled her arms from around her companion.

She released him; he let go of her. They each took the slightest of steps backward. Beth stood silently before him, looking up into his face, her heart brimful with a strange and powerful longing that she dared not give voice. Daryl spoke not a word either, but averted his eyes, and cleared his throat. The half-moon was bright enough that even through the haze she could clearly behold his boyish, almost bashful expression. _Like the night of the moonshine_ , she mused to herself.

Still not quite looking at her, Daryl placed a hand upon her shivering shoulders. She could feel the familiar roughness of his fingers even through the fabric of her sweater—before she knew it, he was guiding her toward the center of the small grove. There, he knelt down beside her and together they lit a little, wavering campfire. If Beth's hands trembled as she struck the match, if she nearly burned herself as she dropped the delicate flame into the pile of kindling, she chalked it up to the chill night air.

In continued silence they consumed their meager meal—some small, furred creature they'd caught earlier; what, precisely, she could no longer recall. And when their bellies were as full as they could be, when their fire had dwindled to ash and its last tendrils of smoke drifted into the mist, they finally lay down together. As they settled themselves amongst the leaves, his hand found hers once more.

Beneath them, the earth was cold, and though it had not been raining that day, the ground was still less than dry. Beth had been dreading sleeping on wet leaves again. _We really gotta find another tarp soon_ , she thought wryly. On these increasingly cool, damp nights, she almost regretted stomping off out of their suck-ass camp without it all those weeks ago.

She'd hoped the food and the fire would have heated her enough, but tonight nothing seemed to suffice, not even the warmth and comforting presence of the one who lay awake beside her. For Daryl, as always, remained watchful. Beth did not, could not, allow herself to fall sleep yet either, but just rested next to him, breathing softly, trying to keep herself still even as a fresh bout of shivering took over.

Silence reigned, for a time. Even the owls seemed to have ceased their hooting. And so it was that Beth started at the sudden, soft rasp of his voice against her ear. "Hey," he said, his fingers tightening around hers, "you're shiverin'. Yer hand…Jesus, Greene. It's like ice."

Perhaps the sudden chill that had stolen through her had also made off with her voice, for Beth could only nod up at him, her teeth chattering. Daryl still had her fingers trapped firmly within his own, and so she just tried to squeeze his hand gently in return. There was no point insisting that she was fine—by now, she knew well enough how little she could hide from this man.

Even through the darkness, she felt his gaze lingering upon her for a long, still moment. "Cm'ere," he said softly, and before she knew it, Beth felt herself tugged gently by the hand, pulled by strong arms, and tucked right up against her companion. With his fingers atop hers, he carefully moved her frozen hand beneath his vest and jacket, to rest against his blissfully warm chest.

With her hand now resting atop his flannel shirt, she could feel the heat of his broad chest and steady thrum of his heart beneath her swiftly-warming fingers. Despite the increased warmth, Beth still shivered quietly against him, scarcely able to breathe. They had slept like this ever since the night of the lake, face to face, snuggled close. But never before had he pulled her against him like this, with such unchecked strength, such calm confidence. Not while he was awake, at least.

He shifted, then, to lean over her, close enough that she could feel the brush of his stubble against her neck, the heat of his breath upon her skin. In that moment, Daryl seemed to her an impenetrable wall of darkness, blocking out even the faint light of that night. Even so, she knew she had nothing to fear. _There is only one shadow here_ , she thought, _and he keeps all the others away._

For a time, neither of them stirred; other than his grip upon her hand which he still kept firmly guarded against his chest, as though he thought she might slip away into the encroaching mist and disappear any moment, Daryl made no further move to touch her. Indeed, nothing passed between them save his breath, which drifted, hot and slow, across the bare skin of her throat. Heat, swift and fierce, flooded through her, and her pulse quickened—a primal, almost instinctual response.

Beth realized that, at some point, she'd stopped shivering.

When Daryl spoke again his voice was soft, husky. "Get some shut-eye, Greene."

She drew a deep breath. "Yes, Mr. Dixon," she whispered.

As she lay there upon the damp, musty leaves, Beth tried to do as he'd said. But the warmth of his hand around hers, the solidness of his chest, his steady breathing—each of these most basic signs of life seemed almost unbearably heightened to her now.

Her shivering had ceased, but there beside him she remained awake, eyes wide, heart pounding, long into the misty, moonlit night.

…

Yet more days passed, long, dreary blurs of dilapidated farms and desolate fields. But finally, they came once more to a substantial stretch of pine forest, one which felt deeply familiar and from which they were both reluctant to emerge. They hunted and camped in its dark depths for several days, by Beth's reckoning. She still tried to mark the passage of days in her journal, when she had the chance.

During this time they followed a deer, tracking it all the way to the tree-line along a dirt road. But when they emerged from the pines, ready to pick up the trail on the other side, they saw them—a dozen or so walkers, stumbling along between the ditch and the dusty road beyond the forest's edge. Still unseen by those hungry eyes, they did not pursue the creature any further. That evening, they contented themselves with the few unlucky cottontails that had wandered into their snares.

One afternoon, Beth sprinted through those towers of dark pine, the needles on the forest floor soft beneath her boots as she darted between the trees. There was barely any underbrush there, just the tall, slim trunks towering above and the smooth carpet of needles below. _Careful,_ she told herself, _don't fall._ All the same, she laughed as she ran, for she had already outpaced her companion. Or, maybe he'd just let her get ahead. She didn't care—all she knew was that she savored her own speed and both dreaded and longed for the moment when he'd catch up with her. The moment he'd catch her.

She was breathing hard, lungs burning, when she burst out of the shade of the trees and into pale sunlight. What lay before her made her skid to a stop, chest heaving, stomach reeling. For she had come to a low ridge upon which ran a set of rusted railroad tracks. Before she could catch her breath, before she could even think, she saw before her eyes once more the mangled remains of what she'd been forced to accept as the children's bodies. Half-eaten, mutilated, their broken forms, their blood and guts had been strewn across her very path. _No,_ she thought, _no, please God no._ She closed her eyes, willing the images away.

The earth seemed to rise up to meet her then, and all she could feel for a long moment were pine needles digging into the skin of her knees through the holes in her jeans.

After a time, she heard him, heard his breathing, heard his boots heavy upon the ground as he emerged from the trees behind her. But she did not stir. He could have been a walker, could have come to devour her, to grind her into dust, into nothingness, and in that moment she would not have moved, would have just remained kneeling upon the earth beneath the pale blue sky. In that moment, she would have embraced nothingness like a long-lost lover, would have welcomed it back into her arms, like a child taken from her far too soon.

But then he was there. She heard the leather creak of him, smelled the sweat of him, sensed his concerned presence there before her. "Beth," was all he said.

Her eyes were still squeezed tightly shut, as though to block the images that had come hurtling from the past, from the depths of her mind. "I put it away," she said, choking back a sob. Whether she spoke to Daryl, or to herself, or to the nothingness, she did not know.

She had not realized she was doubled over so that she lay almost prone across the ground. She had not realized she'd unsheathed her knife and plunged it angrily into the dirt. Not until she wrenched open her eyes, and, looking down, saw her tears drop upon the dust beneath her. Not until she saw the bone hilt of her weapon sticking up from ground and her knuckles, clenched white, still wrapped tightly around it. "I put it away," she insisted again, and she felt herself shaking with it now. "I put it—"

"Hey, hey, don't, shhh," she heard Daryl's voice above her. And then she felt the warmth of his hand upon her back as she remained there for a time, weeping into the earth.

As her shuddering subsided, she looked up at her companion where he still knelt, patient and concerned, beside her. And for a moment, she could not even see the sky, only his dark shadow, and the halo of light around his head where he blocked the pale sun. Beth raised herself slightly and looked past his broad shoulders, beyond the cross of the bow slung over his back. There were no bodies, no blood, no guts. Only the dust and the gentle wind that stirred it, only the soft breeze that even now caressed her face, and cooled the tears that tracked down her cheeks. Only the rusty rails that stretched into the distance, leading somewhere...nowhere. _The end of the line._ She shivered.

She felt Daryl's hand upon her own, felt him unclasp her fingers from their death-grip on the hilt of her blade. He lifted her, then, gently, to her feet. She stood precariously in front of him, as though any moment she might find the world was indeed upside down. As if any moment, she might fall into the sky.

Taking great pains to keep his movements slow, as though trying not to spook her, Daryl carefully slid her knife back into its sheath at her belt. "Come," he said.

And without another word, he took her hand in his, and led her back into the waiting woods.

It was only when she was safely hidden in the shifting shadows between the dark pines that Beth could breathe once more.

…

Some nights, even the forest could not shelter them.

There came a storm-darkened night of swirling dust and leaves blown by howling winds. Branches torn from their trees cracked and fell around them. The tall, thin pines creaked and groaned ominously above their heads, as the wind roared so loudly they could barely hear one another's shouts. In the midst of hastily packing up their camp, Beth had to reach out and grasp hold of Daryl several times simply so she wouldn't be blown away.

That night, she barely had time to feel the surge of fear that it might be a tornado when they were forced to race through the trees, dodging falling branches. They could not remain there; the very woods that had sheltered them had once more become a death trap. And so, the furious wind drove them to the very edge of the tree line, whereupon they emerged, windblown and panting, onto a country lane.

They might have been safe from the creaking limbs and falling branches, but they were now all-too exposed out on the open road. Looking frantically around, they took cover in the first thing they found: a broken-down, two-door, Ford pick-up of nondescript beige. And none too soon; almost the moment the doors had slammed shut behind them, blown by another forceful gust of wind, an icy rain began to fall, hammering down upon the truck.

Daryl had seated himself in the driver's seat and Beth had climbed in beside him. The leather seats were anything but dry and smelled strongly of mold and mildew. It was cold, so cold, even inside that truck. Soon Beth could not help but sidle closer, could not help but press up against the denim and leather of him.

Outside the rain turned swiftly to hail, a barrage of ice falling hard and loud upon the windshield.

Beth couldn't help but be reminded of the night they'd spent cramped in the trunk of that car, and the night they'd slept in that abandoned stable. But her mind now also traveled back to that first winter on the run, how she'd huddled just like this, at times against her father, and at others, against Lori, and even Carol. How she had been scared, so scared, back then. And yet, somehow, even though it was only herself and Daryl against the world, she did not feel such fear. Not now. Even just pressed up beside him like this, she felt only safety, and…belonging.

Never once would Beth have thought she would miss the sweltering, humid days and warm, sticky nights of summer, with the drone of cicadas and swarms of persistent mosquitoes out searching for blood. But miss them she did.

She didn't mind the cold, not when it was relatively dry, and one could snuggle against the warmth of a companion amidst a bed of leaves, beside a crackling campfire. But this…this icy rain, and wet, damp cold went right through her. Even though she was leaning right against him, she still felt the chill deep in her bones. There had already been several chilly, damp evenings out there, and she knew from before that there would be many more such nights to come.

It was moments like this that she wished, for once, that the ignition would start. That they could put the heat on, just for a little while. That there were still radio stations they could listen to, as they drove along an abandoned highway.

Sometimes Beth wondered if she would ever ride in a moving vehicle again.

She recalled, suddenly and with great clarity, one of the last times she'd ridden shotgun in the cab of a pickup truck before the turn. It was the night she'd gone to a party at Sarah-Jane's. She'd had her daddy's permission of course. But what he didn't know, what no one knew, was that she'd hoped to meet someone from school there. A boy. It was before Jimmy, right before he'd started working for her daddy on the farm.

Billy Donovan. Oh, she remembered him. Tall, dark-haired. Football player. A year or two older than her. He'd been what Ashley-Jo and Sarah-Jane had called 'dreamy'. _"I never…kissed Billy Donovan,"_ was something they'd giggle over while playing that drinking game. The game Beth had never joined, only watched. And so, when the boy himself had cornered her at the party, had whispered into her ear to meet him at the foot of the stairs, Beth had, in a moment of giddy defiance, agreed. She'd thought, maybe, for once, she'd _do somethin'_ her friends hadn't.

And so, she'd shaken off her girlfriends and found him there at the edge of that crowded room of people pressed up and dancing to blasting electronic beats. But as soon as he'd led her up the long flight of stairs and into one of the back bedrooms, as soon as she'd found herself alone with him, fear had gripped her. She'd known before his lips were on hers, hot and demanding, even before his fingers had dipped into her jeans, even before he was trying forcibly to remove her shirt, even before he was shoving her onto the waiting bed, that it had been a terrible mistake.

Looking back at it now, Beth thought that it had not been unlike being attacked by a walker. The fear of being gripped by a mindless entity driven by only one thing—an insatiable, ravenous hunger. The fear of being gutted and devoured by something only interested in her innards.

How she'd managed to escape him, she still could not say. Whether she had bitten him fiercely, like a wildcat, or knee'd him in the groin, or had just wrenched herself free and walked out the door, she could no longer remember. She barely remembered running past the crowd of bodies, flinging the screen door to the outside open before her. But she recalled clearly how she'd sprinted across the porch, all the way down to the end of the long driveway of that big house. Only when she'd reached the mailbox had she halted, hot tears streaming down her face.

She could not have called her father, she could not have called her mother. And she couldn't call Maggie, for she'd have taken one look and driven her straight home, and told their dad. No, there was one person she could tell. And so she'd pulled out her cellphone and texted her big brother. _"Come get me. Don't tell. plz."_

And so, Shawn had come, had pulled up in that big blue Dodge Ram of his, windows rolled down, classic rock station blaring. He'd opened the door, told her to hop in. But her brother had only to take one look at her face as she clambered into the cab beside him, and he knew. "What's his name?" was all he'd said.

Beth had just shaken her head through hiccuping sobs, but Shawn had waited, patiently. Until, finally, she'd gasped out his name in a strangled whisper. _"What're you gonna do to him?"_ she'd asked, panicked. But her brother hadn't answered, and had just stepped silently out of the cab and shut the door behind him.

When he'd returned, ten minutes, three hours later (she couldn't have said), he'd just smiled his winning smile, and said, "Don't look at me like that, Bethy. I didn't murder him. Just put the fear of God, my fists, and Dad's shotgun in him." He chuckled again at the look on her face. "He won't be a problem anymore. And don't cry, sis. I won't tell Dad. I won't even tell Maggie, alright?"

Beth had just sniffled, nodded, and taken a deep and shuddering breath. What she would've done without her big brother that night, she did not know. He'd even driven the long way home, had let her cry it out, and dry her tears, so no one at home would ever know.

On that long drive home, down country lanes much like this one, the windows in her brother's pickup had been rolled down, for it had been early summer. Beth recalled now how the night breeze had caressed her face, how she'd let it cool the hot shame from her burning cheeks and dry her angry tears. How she'd tried, and failed, to fall asleep when the radio had started blaring "Ready For Love" by Bad Company. She remembered thinking that even the music had been mocking her in that moment.

Now, in the cab of this broken-down truck, there was no radio, no music. No sound but the storm outside and the steadily pattering hail. And the windows, fogged up now from their breaths, were rolled up tight against the wind and freezing rain, against the walkers, against the night. And there was no Shawn, just Daryl. Only Daryl. Always Daryl.

There beside him in the front seat, she could not help but notice how his arm rested heavily, protectively, upon her back. She wondered, then, what her companion would have done—what he would do—should anyone try the same, now. Her face still pressed against his chest, Beth glanced down at his belt, at the large hunting knife—it's blade as sharp as any scythe—secured there. Even in the darkness of the cab she saw how his free hand moved, at times, to finger its hilt. How even now he sat ready for whatever might be wandering out there on that drenched and icy road. She had only to look at the way he gripped that weapon, and she knew.

There was a thunderous crack and the hail pounded down more fiercely upon the windshield than before, and for a moment Beth thought the glass might shatter in their faces. But then, just as suddenly, the pounding stopped; she could once more hear their mingled breaths as their chests rose and fell as one.

Even though the hail had ceased, still they could see nothing; the rolled-up windows had completely fogged up. The night was cloudy but still dark, so dark. In a truck that did not start, they were in many ways sitting ducks; even so, Beth did not relish the idea of wandering blindly back out into the wet, damp, blackness.

She shifted in the passenger seat, lifting her head from Daryl's shoulder and sitting up slightly. She reached toward the windshield, with the intent to wipe the condensation away to see what they could see. "Maybe it's clear—"

"Hold up," Daryl's hand was on her arm, stopping her. He brought his finger to her lips. "Listen."

And then she heard them. Faint, but unmistakable. Moans, hisses, groans, shuffling…and then they were there, just the haziest of shadows, their outlines barely visible beyond the foggy windshield.

Gradually, she felt Daryl lower his finger from her lips. "How many d'you think?" she asked him in a strained whisper.

"Dozen, maybe," he replied. "Or more."

Beth gulped, automatically trying to calculate in her mind how many she'd have to take down. She recalled then, the walkers they'd narrowly avoided while tracking the deer to the forest's edge. If these were the same they'd encountered that day, there was no time to dwell on it. All she knew was that it had been a while now since they'd been forced to confront any at all, and she was rusty.

Taking a deep breath, she swallowed down the rising panic. "That…that's not so bad…right?" She looked up at Daryl, but he made no reply, so she continued: "I'll check my side." She extricated herself from him and carefully leaned over to the passenger window. With her bare hand she wiped away the condensation, only to find she still couldn't see anything out there, not in the darkness. She leaned just the slightest bit forward, pressing her nose right up against the glass, and squinting in the direction of the trees. "Nothin'," she said, "just the ditch on this side of the road and—"

 _Thwump_. Suddenly a gray, rotten hand was there, right in her face, and she let out a tiny shriek and propelled herself backward into Daryl.

" _Shit,"_ she swore. She'd jumped back with such force that she had nearly climbed into his lap, and she looked up at him now, sheepish. "Sorry."

"Careful," he rasped, and gently nudged her back onto the seat.

Sitting up slowly, Beth realized window was still, thankfully, rolled up. Still unbroken. "Well, guess that answers it—there's at least one on my side. Still," she said, determined, "I can get it."

And she could. They'd dealt with far more than this together. Gotten out of far worse scrapes. _I'm not gonna be gutted_ , she told herself, and the old mantra worked its wonders as a sense of calm washed over her. "So," she prodded him, "how d'you wanna do it?"

Daryl didn't answer right away, but looked down at his bow where it rested between himself and the driver's window, and down at his knife.

Carefully, Beth pulled her own knife out of her belt, gestured with it towards her window. "Thought we could open the doors, just a crack. Take them out one by one. What do you think?"

Daryl remained quiet for a moment. And then he replied, softly: "Go, Beth. Run. I got this."

"What do you mean?" She forced her voice to remain steady.

"You're fast, Greene. You are. You can make it into the cover of those trees, I know you can. I'll lead them to my side, finish 'em off. I'll catch up to ya," he added, after a moment.

Beth shifted in the seat to face him, and as she did, her incredulity brimmed over, spilled out before she could stop herself. "Are you kiddin'?" she asked, her voice rising to a pitch. "And let you fight 'em all on your own? Don't be stupid," she said with suddenly ferocity. She could have punched him, damn the man. "It's not that many. We can make it. 'Sides," she added, gripping the edge of his leather vest, as if to dare him to shake her off, "I won't leave you. You know I won't. Not even if—"No, she wouldn't even give that thought voice. "Not _ever._ "

Daryl grasped her wrist where she held onto his vest, as if he really were going to wrench himself free. As if he really would try to force her to let go of him. _He wouldn't,_ she thought, _he wouldn't make me leave him…_

Beth found Daryl's gaze and held it, just as she held onto him more tightly. She could just make out the storm-blue of his eyes as they bored into her own. _I still need you_ , she tried to convey to him silently. _I'll always need you._

 _Thwack._ More rotten hands slammed against the windows, on both sides now, clawing to get inside. Beside her, Daryl let out a great sigh and shook his head. He loosened his grip on her wrist. "Alright," he said quietly, "alright."

She was about to speak up, to say to him, _"We got this,"_ when suddenly, inexplicably, bright white light illuminated Daryl's face, causing him to squint and raise his hand to his eyes. Beth heard it then, the low rumble of what could only be a car engine. She turned to face the sound and was momentarily blinded by the flash of headlights gleaming through the droplets of rain upon the windshield.

" _Shit."_ It was Daryl's turn to swear.

For a split second, through watery rivulets Beth could just make out the silhouettes of the walkers in front of the beams of light. She saw them stumble to a pause and turn, slowly, clumsily to face the car that had now stopped just in front of them.

"Get down," Daryl hissed, practically shoving her to the floor.

Heart pounding in her chest, Beth slid down the seat to crouch at the bottom of the foot well. She could see Daryl readying the strap on his bow and unsheathing his knife. Her own knife was already in her hand.

Moments passed; her heart beat faster. _What the hell are we gonna do now?_ she wondered. _They must've seen us already. But the walkers…maybe they're distracted…_

Daryl spoke then, as though reading her mind. "Alright," he said, keeping his voice low and steady. "Now's our chance. Best take it."

"What—" she began.

"Open your door, slow and careful. Got your knife ready? Good. Run, Beth. Get to the cover of the trees."

"Wait. You're comin' too," she said, "You _have_ to."

Through the light still beaming through the windshield, she saw him give the briefest of nods. It was all she needed. She lifted herself back up into the seat, just for a moment, grabbed the backpack, and pushed the truck door open.

She stepped down from the cab into the squelching mud of the roadside and immediately ducked down to hide behind the open door. And there she waited for a moment until she heard Daryl clamber out of his side, heard the splash of his boots through the puddles on the road.

He emerged from the shadows on the other side of the truck a few seconds later. "I told you to run," he said sternly as he reached her side.

"I am," she said, "now."

She stood upright then, and carefully as she could, she leaped across the ditch, half-sliding, half-landing upon the rain-soaked ground. She righted herself and sprinted toward darkness that was the tree line.

Daryl was right behind her; all would be well.

As they reached the trees, they skidded to a stop behind the trunk of a pine, catching their breaths for just a moment. Beth heard the creak of a car door open, and the muttering of faint voices. The wind still blew strongly, and she could make out neither the accent nor gender of the voices' owners.

"Come on," Daryl urged her. "Let's get the hell outta here, 'fore they see us."

"Wait," she said, tugging on his sleeve. "What if…shouldn't we…? We can't just leave them to those walkers. And they got a car. One that runs. What if they're… alright?

Daryl had paused in his tracks when she'd grabbed his sleeve. She could just see the outline of his face, the shadows of his eyes as he shook his head. His hand came to rest on her shoulder then, and if she did not know better, he seemed in that moment almost…sad. _I ain't riskin' it. Not with you._ His look—and his touch— conveyed all.

Something came to her then, something Maggie had told her after she'd been held prisoner by the Governor. _"You forget what people do."_ Beth believed that there were people out there that still had goodness in their hearts. She had to believe it. But Daryl was right, too. After the prison, after the red field of blood, after lake, after everything…they couldn't risk it, not tonight.

 _Bang, bang, bang._ Gunshots rang out, one after the other. _Bang, bang, bang._ A whole round…and then another.

All went quiet.

Out on the road, the car door slammed shut. Followed by a sound like footsteps splashing, thudding against a wet road.

Someone had stepped out.

Beth did not wait another second. With quickened breath and thudding heart, she turned on her booted heel and ran headlong through the tall trees, Daryl close behind. Now, as they ran, they cared neither for warmth nor for comfort—their only aim was to remain unseen by any eye, whether living or dead.

And so they took shelter in the damp night-forest once more, and hid themselves beneath dark pines, beneath branches dripping with cold rain.

There was a day that would remain in her memory, unblemished, unmarred by anything that came later.

That morning dawned fresh and cold, and she and Daryl lingered just a little while longer than usual around their little fire, sharing cups of instant coffee.

Beth could still remember the feeling of the aluminum camping mug in her hands, how its warmth had seeped into her stiff fingers. The feeling of the still-piping liquid running down her throat, as hot as the blood of a freshly-hunted deer. Daryl a solid wall at her side, sipping his own mug. The worn denim sleeve of his jacket as he rested his arm at her side, brushing now and then again her arm, or thigh. Her ripped and torn jeans sliding every so often against his—dirt-stained blue against faded brown. Their coffee-warmed breaths misting together and then blowing away in the breeze.

Less clear to her was flavor of the substance itself, whether it had been too bitter, or too strong, or whether it had even tasted like coffee—for she found she could no longer remember what real coffee tasted like anyway. Rather, it was those fleeting images that would remain ingrained in her mind, written into the pages of her memory, as clear as any entry in her diary.

Beth could not now recall what they had been speaking of, only that she'd laughed merrily and Daryl, his eyes bright, his face aglow with morning light, had clapped her shoulder, so hard that she nearly spilled her hot drink on them both. She'd chided him then, told him that if he wasn't careful, she might burn him.

Daryl met her eyes then, and she saw within his fervent gaze an intensity so searing that she wondered if, maybe, she already had.

As they packed up, put out the embers, and made their way back into the trees, she pondered to herself whether some people had fires inside them so strong that they could set others alight just by looking at them.

That day, Beth shot her first squirrel.

It hadn't been the greatest of shots. Maybe it was all that caffeine that had made her hands shake and her aim waver, just slightly. She'd hit the creature in the belly—its spilled guts left a dark crimson stain onto the bark of the tree where she'd pinned it. But to look at Daryl, to see his face, one would think that Beth had just found a cure for the disease, or found a way off this rock and flown to the moon. The high-five he'd given her had such force behind it that it had nearly knocked her over, but she'd stood her ground, baring her teeth at him in a fierce grin.

She sat now upon a large, fallen tree trunk with her legs on each side, as though astride a horse. Daryl had picked up the squirrel, and laid it out on its back in front of her with a look on his face that reminded her of a dog that had just retrieved its master's kill. Having explained how to proceed, he now stood beside her, watching and waiting.

Back at home on the farm, she'd seen cows and pigs butchered. She'd even had to pluck a plump a chicken now and again, back in the day. But she'd never much enjoyed it, and had considered it a grim task indeed. But that was before. Before she'd learned how to shoot a gun. Before she'd had to stick metal pipes through the rotten skulls of the undead as they clambered to get through the prison fences. Before she'd eaten freshly-skinned mudsnakes and cottontails and squirrels for breakfast. Before she'd seen a stag skinned and gutted, and drained of its blood. Before she'd spent weeks and months on the run with this man.

Before she'd watched and learned. Before he'd taught her his ways.

Now, Beth worked steadily, carefully, without so much as flinching.

 _If only Maggie could see me now,_ she thought as she made the necessary small cuts to the creature's legs to free its hide. _And Shawn._ Her big brother might've chosen to tease her about her aim, but she knew that deep down he would've been impressed. The thought came to her suddenly that she'd never again hear a word of praise or scorn from him. That she might never see Maggie again, let alone hear her bossy, affectionate words. She paused, mid-slice, her heart constricting.

Daryl still stood above her where she sat, watching. "What's the matter, Greene? Grossed out already?' he said, tapping her lightly on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

" _No,"_ she insisted. "I watched you skin that deer. I watched the whole thing," she reminded him. "'Sides, I was raised on a farm, remember?"

"Ain't like I'd ever forget it." He looked at her through slanted eyes. "Still, seein' it ain't the same as doin' it, is it."

"No," she admitted. "But it's not that, it's just…"

"What, then?"

She shrugged. "Nothin'."

"Mmph," he grunted. "Just watch what you're doin' with that knife, you hear? Remember what I told you: most huntin' injuries 're self-inflicted. There, that's better."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon," she said, finding within herself a little smile.

And then she felt heart constricting in an entirely different way, as she realized.

Daryl's praise was all she needed. All she _wanted_ , now.

…

Later that evening, they partook of a meal of Beth's squirrel augmented by Daryl's additional kills. They'd sprinkled the gamey meat in herbs leftover from the supplies she'd scavenged in one of the cottages by the lake. For dessert, they shared the last of the pink lady apples; Daryl once more sliced the fruit clean in half with his sharp hunting knife.

Afterward, as they sat in front of their cooking fire upon a floor of pine needles, Daryl handed Beth a flat, heavy, polished stone the color of dried moss.

"What—?" she asked, as he dropped it into her hand.

"The whetstone. It's yours now."

A log crackled loudly, consumed by the flames of their fire. Beth was momentarily confused, astounded. "But…why?"

Daryl looked down at his feet. "You know, in case."

"In case…?" she asked.

"In case…I ain't here."

Beth took a deep breath then, and turned the smooth stone over in her fingers for a moment. Sometime after her heart had started beating again, she managed to speak once more. "Wherever might you be goin', Mr. Dixon?" she said, gently, keeping her tone light. "Plannin' another vacation already?"

Daryl's face remained serious. "You know what I mean, Beth."

The use of her name, in such a tone, took her breath away for a moment. But once more she composed herself. "I've already told you. You're not goin' anywhere without me, and that's that." Beth looked him straight in the eye, daring him to challenge her further.

Daryl went silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Still," he said. "Gotta keep things sharp. I'll show ya. Come here."

Heart still in her throat, Beth nonetheless obeyed him, and she stood up and moved to be closer to his side. And indeed, Daryl proceeded to demonstrate her how to properly sharpen her bone-handled knife. As he helped her hone the blade, she became aware, then, of his hand resting atop hers, engulfing her from her wrist to the tips of her fingers, as he showed her how to properly hold the knife against it. How to slide the edge back and forth, how to motion it away so as not to slice her small fingers open once more.

"Good," he said when she had finished. He held her little knife up to the firelight. It glinted prettily, the light flashing off its razor-thin edge. "Good."

He handed it back to her. She took it from him carefully and slid it back into its sheath at her belt.

"You know," he continued, "it's 'bout time we found you another weapon."

Beth had to agree with that. "What d'you have in mind?"

"Somethin' with a bit more range. Gun, maybe. Or somethin' more stealthy. A hunter's weapon. Seein' as you're a hunter now."

"Maybe all's I need is a big stick," she said, grinning.

Daryl just stared at her, momentarily befuddled. But then a little smirk appeared on his face. "No, smart-ass," he said, "a bow of your own. Seein' as you like 'em so much."

"I do," she said, serious this time. "Like them, I mean."

At that, Daryl's expression broadened into a grin. A grin that Beth found herself returning, long enough that her cheeks flushed. Long enough that she eventually had to look away, had to look down at the whetstone on the log in front of her. Carefully, she picked up the flat stone and reached down into their pack to find a secure place for it. _There_ , she thought, still blushing faintly despite herself. _Secret, safe._

That night, after their fire had gone out, they sat side by side beneath a tall pine, as though reluctant to lose the other to sleep, reluctant to leave the other in order to take watch. And so they sat together and pointed up at the sky. The moon was nearly full. Orion had risen higher, so that they could even see his belt now above the branches. Beth found herself glancing over at her companion's face, illuminated by the moonlight, as often as she did the lights above.

Beneath that pine tree, under the bright moon, they talked and laughed about everything and nothing for quite some time. The last thing Beth remembered was giggling at something that Daryl had said—something that'd seemed far more hilarious than it probably was. It was like the night she'd been drunk on moonshine, when everything had seemed beautiful and funny and sad all at once.

Still laughing, Beth had nudged him playfully, only to find herself yawning softly. She vaguely recalled protesting at Daryl's words, "Alright, sleepyhead. I got this." And then she was closing her eyes, just for a moment.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but the night made its claim on her all the same.

And as she slept, she dreamed.

She was in the forest, as always. Only it was the green, leafy forest of high summer. _Home_ , she thought. _I'm home._ And she was tracking, Daryl at her side, his crossbow hefted in her arms. One moment they were walking on a pathway lined by trees— _strange,_ she thought, _I thought all the paths were overgrown_ —the next, they were crouched down in the undergrowth together, watching, waiting. Suddenly, a great stag, its antlers as spreading as any ancient oak, stepped into the path ahead. It was close, so close. Beth knew she could get it if she wanted to. She was aiming for it, ready to release the trigger, ready to send the bolt clean through its side, right into its heart.

Inexplicably, she stopped, and lowered the bow. It was only as she stepped toward the deer that she realized she was wearing the blue sundress. It floated like a cloud around her legs. As she approached the stag, she saw that it was enormous, giant, almost. The size of a draft horse. But she felt no fear. Instead, she reached out a pale hand, and the creature lowered its head, lowered its antlers. She turned then to look behind her, to beckon Daryl to follow her. _"Don't you think it's beautiful?"_ she wanted to ask her companion. But when she looked back to the spot, he was gone.

Before she could even cry out his name, the stag roared a warning and bolted, and somehow she was astride its back, clinging to it for her life as it fled. Gone were the leaves; the massive deer sprinted now through a bare, wintry wood. Branches whipped at her hair, her face, her body, tearing the dress once more to ribbons. A thorny branch cut her cheek, and she felt her own lifeblood trailing down her face, but still she held on. And then, the great creature halted, and she nearly fell off, nearly tumbled to the ground.

In the pathway in front of them stood a figure at once familiar and yet so very strange: tall, hooded, and dark. Fear, cold as a hailstone ran down her back, shivered down her spine. For she knew it, knew it from a lake edged with fire, from a night of endless darkness. It spoke then, and she felt rather than heard its words reverberate through her: _Hunt, or be hunted._

And then she and the stag were surrounded. A herd had appeared out of nowhere, as if sent through a portal from another world, as if emerging from the very mouth of hell. And then she was going down, and her mount went down beneath her, groaning in pain. But still she held on fiercely to its antlers as they were pulled down together, dragged by hundreds of rotten, clinging hands, down into the very depths of the earth.

She woke then, and her heart raced faster than any frightened deer as she blinked herself out of the nightmare. _I'm still here. He's still here._

And he was, indeed, still there. Daryl was sitting up with his back against the trunk of the tree, keeping watch. She had fallen asleep this time with her head resting almost in his lap. But just like the night in the stable, she had somehow wrapped her arms around him, had shifted in her sleep to hide her head into his chest.

She must have made some noise, for Daryl stirred beneath her then. His hand came up, gentle, so gentle upon her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. "Shhh, Beth," she heard him whisper into her hair. "You're dreamin'."

Beth hadn't realized she'd been whimpering. As she took a deep, shuddering breath, she felt Daryl's free arm wrap completely around her. She closed her eyes again, pressed her check against his leather vest, and held on tightly to his middle. She did not fall back into sleep—she did not dare, lest she wake next time to find that the man in her arms was truly gone.

That morning, after the moon had set but before the sun had peeked over the trees, when the darkness still hung around them, a mist arose. It was a mist so impenetrable that they could not see even a few inches in front of their faces. And while it lasted, they did not stir, but stayed sitting together underneath the tall pine. Beth did not need to see to know without a doubt that Daryl's hand remained firmly upon the hilt of his knife. Her fingers lingered likewise upon her own blade, on its handle of cold bone.

As the first pale light filtered through the trees, the thick fog began to dissipate. Neither beast nor walker had emerged from it, no snarling creature ready to tear out their throats. But even so, their mood did not immediately lift, for the day had dawned drear and grey. Beth had to believe that the sun would yet shine, that it would warm their stiff and aching bodies.

That it would give them life enough for one more day.

They made a small fire and drank their coffee quickly, gulping down the too-hot liquid. It was time to get moving again.

Daryl hadn't said much, not since she had woken in the night with such fear. But his shadowed eyes had spoken for him. Beth knew he was concerned for her. No matter that she'd had nightmares aplenty during their time on the run—she was more than used to it. And yet her companion always fretted when she did not get enough sleep. No matter that he never seemed to sleep a wink. She vowed in her mind to make sure that tonight, he did.

"You good?" he asked as he watched her heft their pack onto her back. He'd stamped out their tiny fire with his boot, and was patiently waiting.

"Yeah," she said, shifting the pack onto her shoulders. "I'm _ready._ Let's track."

Daryl nodded, and handed her his crossbow. "Alright. Let's see what you got today, Greene."

She accepted the bow from him and flashed him a quick smile. "Just you watch, Mr. Dixon."

And as they made their way through the trees, passing birch and small pines alike, treading carefully upon a floor of fallen leaves, pine cones, and needles, somehow, she knew _._

Today, she was going find herself a weapon.

…

* * *

 **A/N** : Since it was first published last year, this chapter has seen a few revisions. Certain sections always felt little too rushed and vague, especially for an introspective slow-burn of this nature. Returning readers may therefore notice a few 'deleted scenes' scattered throughout that were not present in the original version.

* * *

 ****** IMPORTANT REMINDER ******

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	8. In Our Own World

"Never sung out in front of a big group out in public, like it was fun."  
-Daryl Dixon, 'Still'

"I've been keepin' my bag packed. Keepin' my gun close. I've been afraid to get my hopes up. That we can actually stay here."  
-Beth Greene, 'Inmates'

…

 _Hey. I know I haven't written much since I almost dropped you in the lake. Sorry about that. At least Daryl found you. He's real good at finding things._

 _After we got away from that place and that fire, everything's been a bit of a blur. Days keep going by so fast, I hardly notice the time out there in the woods. We've been sticking even closer to the trees. Daryl doesn't say it, but I know why. It's 'cause we can hide there. Not from walkers. From people._

 _It's true. It's a risk to stay anywhere too long. If we get one night somewhere, we're lucky. Most of the time we still sleep outside. The trees hide us real good. But it's getting colder. Some nights, like when it's raining, even our fire isn't enough._

 _When I was tracking with Daryl today I did something stupid. Real stupid. I got my ankle caught in a trap. Guess I wasn't reading the signs. But it was worth it 'cause the walker had a gun. Daryl said I needed to get myself a new weapon…and I did. Not sure I can walk on my foot just yet. But I got Daryl. I wouldn't have made it to where we are now if it wasn't for him._

 _Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you. Today hasn't been all bad. We found something. Not just the gun, but something…good. It's this place. A big house. Secluded. Old, but sturdy. It's still standing. Hasn't even been ransacked or overrun. Someone's been looking after it. Keeping it safe._

 _I know what you're thinking. It'll be just like last time. And all the times before that. Don't worry, I know better than to get my hopes up. That we can actually stay. We might have to, cause of my foot, but it'll only be for a day or two. We ate the last of the pink ladies last night, and I don't regret it one bit. I don't regret anything._

 _Momma always used to say that nothing's impossible. And you know what? I think she was right. Maybe that sounds stupid now, after everything. But I still remember. I still remember what Daddy taught me, too. And I know that more than anything, he'd want me to keep believing. In myself. In people._

 _So, Daddy, I do. I believe. I believe, because how can something be impossible if it's happening right now?_

 _You see, Daryl and I, we're still here. Together._

 _We made it._

…

Sitting alone upon the hard bench, the keys cool and smooth beneath her fingers, Beth sighed with pleasure.

It had been such a long time.

When she had first entered the room, the very moment she had laid her eyes upon it, all of her pain, all of her fear, all of her wariness had fled in an instant.

Sitting herself down carefully, she'd been unsure what to expect after so long. Her hands had hovered tentatively above the keys, just for a moment. Plunking out a few notes, to her amazement she'd discovered that the beautiful instrument had even been kept relatively in-tune. To her added delight and relief, she had found that, despite being more accustomed to gripping the bone hilt of her knife these days, her fingers twitched with memory. She could still perform.

Beth had never expected to see a piano again, let alone find one in a place safe enough to play it. Once she'd started, she found that she didn't want to stop, and she had now played well into the evening. So far she'd tapped out every tune she remembered and even some that she didn't. She'd even managed to sight read some of the hymn sheets that had been left on the music stand.

Now, she sat still for a moment, reminding herself of the notes of a song that she'd started composing back before the outbreak. Back at the farm, that place she'd once called home.

She'd hummed this one few times out there in the forest. A line here, a bit of melody there. But now, here in this enclosed space, sitting in front of the waiting keys, she found the tune in its entirety somehow more difficult to remember.

Pausing midway through the song, she lifted her head and peered out through the boarded up windows to where the setting sun still lingered in the evening sky, just visible through the shutters. Soon, the space around her would be too dark for her to even see the keys. Earlier, she'd noticed the many candles and candelabras decorating the room. After digging out a small matchbox from the backpack, she stood up shakily and hobbled across the floor, lighting each candle carefully, one by one.

It was with a grand sigh of relief that she sat back down again once more upon the hard seat of the piano bench and resumed her playing. Surely, Daryl would be back any moment. He'd gone back outside to string the cans across the porch; they would follow their long-held protocol, even here in this place of stillness and calm.

Beth knew better, of course. She knew damn well not to trust such places. And yet, she found herself settling almost immediately into an easy familiarity—an intimacy, of sorts—with this house and its beautiful piano.

When they'd first found this room, she had barely even noticed the empty coffin with its lid gaping open, as though eagerly awaiting its inhabitant. Nor had she truly registered the rows of chairs set up as though in preparation for a well-attended service. She supposed her wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment must have given away her longing to just play and play until her joints creaked and her fingers fell right off.

Daryl had not commented on the piano directly, but he'd taken one look at it and helped her limp to sit down on its bench. "Stay right there," he'd said in a strangely soft voice. "Don't move."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon," she'd replied. By then she'd already been so entranced by the instrument before her that she'd barely even heard the echo of his boots against the hard floor as he'd strode out the door.

As she played and sang now, as the music reverberated through her head and into the funeral parlour, she became lost entirely in the sounds themselves, until the moment she attempted to push the pedal with her foot and flinched in pain. Instantly, her mind replayed the details fall out there earlier this morning—and not without a rush of embarrassment.

She'd only wanted to get herself that damn gun. But instead, she'd screwed up big time.

All the same, Daryl hadn't teased her, not even for a moment. If anything, he'd been the most concerned she'd seen him since she'd tumbled into the lake. He'd wasted not a single breath before coming to her aid. She'd never seen anything quite like it—somehow he had taken out the walker that had been coming at her, slid to the ground beside her, and released the trap from her heel in one, impossibly fast movement.

And then, after he'd helped her stand and made sure she was as okay as she could be under the circumstances, he'd helped her with the gun holster taken from the dead walker. She recalled how it had felt when he'd put his arms all the way around her waist to adjust it so it would sit _just so_ across her hips, and how his fingers had lingered there on her sides, just for a moment. How he'd helped her do up the front buckle, and the way his hands had jerked slightly as he'd pulled it just a bit too hard, just a bit too tight.

Once finished, Daryl had remained standing right in front of her, his hands warm and strong where they still rested on her hips. "There," he'd said. "How's that? Alright? Not, uh…pinchin' ya?"

"No, it's good. Thanks," she'd smiled up at him. "Still hurts pretty bad, but…" she'd trailed off under her companion's concerned, intense gaze.

"Got what you wanted, though." His voice had gone strangely soft.

She'd just looked him straight in the eye. "Did I?"

A light wind had stirred, sending the pine branches creaking and swaying gently above their heads. Finally, Daryl had cleared his throat and looked away, releasing his grip on her hips. Then, he'd moved to stand beside her, bringing his arm around her, firm and helpful. "C'mon," he'd urged.

And so, she'd wrapped her own arm around him and moved haltingly at his side until they'd emerged from the woods where they'd been tracking together. Beth had limped and hobbled from the safety of the pines and out into the open air until she could limp and hobble no more. If Daryl's hand had once more found its way to the small of her waist, she had been in far too much in pain to take any notice.

After that, as they'd made their way slowly together, Daryl had refused to stick to the treeline as before. Despite her protests, he had insisted on finding them somewhere to rest up as soon as possible. Beth had ignored the uneasy feeling of exposure at being out in the open, and had let him guide her until she was too tired to continue and had to ask for a break.

That was when Daryl had insisted on carrying her.

And carry her he had, the whole final leg of the journey, until they'd arrived at this place of eternal rest.

Now, here in this room, Beth had removed the holster, for she'd found it too bulky and uncomfortable to wear while sitting on the piano bench. Along with the gun, it was now safely stowed away inside the backpack which rested within easy reach on the floor beside her.

She might have found herself a new weapon, but as with any gun she'd have to use it with care—firing it would only draw unnecessary attention, and she only had so much ammo. And yet, she was glad to have it as back-up all the same. Her knife had served her well enough in taking out slow, stumbling walkers, but even so, there had been far too many close calls.

As she continued playing, her fingers sought the chords she'd been struggling to recall earlier. Finally, she remembered the song in full. As she sang it softly but clearly, the feeling was of a secret, hidden spring, once dry but now flowing out from the deep well of her soul and into the universe.

 _It's unclear now, what we intend_  
 _We're alone in our own world_  
 _You don't wanna be my boyfriend_  
 _And I don't wanna be your girl_  
 _And that, that's a relief_  
 _We'll drink up our grief_  
 _And pine for summer_

These words had once formed a picture in her mind of a young farmhand, a high school sweetheart, a summer crush—a picture of a life as far-removed from her now as to be another person's life altogether.

With a strange twinge of guilt she remembered something she'd said to her big sister, back at the farm. It had been in the midst of her grief for their fresh losses, not but a few days before Jimmy himself had been taken, too. _"So I'm with him three months and now I'm married to him?_ " She had been but newly facing what seemed an eternity without her mother and her brother; any thought of _forever_ had been frightening indeed.

But Beth could not pretend that the old image that this song had once conjured, her childish fantasy of a summer romance, had not now been replaced by another picture altogether. Just as the world had turned, so had these words—penned long before she knew what they truly meant—morphed and formed anew as she sang them aloud.

Concentrating hard, Beth became wholly immersed in the world of the song. The world she herself had created. She must have been as spellbound now as she had been earlier, for just as she'd barely heard her companion leave, neither did she hear him return.

 _And we'll buy a beer to shotgun_  
 _And we'll lay in the lawn_  
 _And we'll be good_

Even before she trailed off she'd felt a prickling sensation. The hairs on her arms stood on end, even beneath her grey sweater, as though a sudden breeze had come drifting in through the boarded up windows.

It was then she heard the unmistakable sound of Daryl clearing his throat, and she swiveled around to face him.

He stepped through the doorway slowly, sheepishly, as though he'd stumbled upon something secret, something forbidden.

"Place is nailed up tight," he said in a low, gravelly voice. He stopped briefly to set his crossbow down on the settee. "Yep," he mumbled, more to himself than to her, "only way in's through the front door."

Daryl paused for a moment mid-stride, halfway between the door and where she sat at the piano. He hovered awkwardly, hesitantly. She wondered if he'd changed his mind and decided he didn't want to come into the room after all, like a creature desirous to run back out to where he belonged, into the forests of the night. The flickering candlelight cast his form into larger-than-life shadows across the wall, each moving of its own accord. For a moment, there appeared to be infinite Daryl's, but then the shadows merged, or scattered, until there was but one remaining.

The real Daryl proceeded to do something that made Beth gape at him harder than if she'd just spied him half-naked in the woods.

"What're you _doin'_?" she asked.

For he had perched himself upon the edge of the open-lidded coffin, and then, heaving a big sigh, he'd swung his legs inside the casket. "This is the comfiest bed I've had in a year," he grunted, settling into the cushiony interior.

"Really?" she raised an eyebrow. She knew all-too well how uncomfortable the prison bunks had been. But she couldn't help but think of how he'd missed out, big time, back at the lake cabin. However short her sleep had been that night, one thing was certain—that bed had been darn comfy.

As Daryl settled into the open casket, Beth's fingers itched and she thought about turning around to face the keys once more. It was the same with her playing as it was with her singing—in all her life she'd never before cared whether she had an audience. Whether it was in church, around a campfire, to a crowd of folk gathered to hear, to the ears of an uncomprehending infant, or just to herself when alone in her own room, Beth had always loved creating music for its own sake. To do so had always felt almost magical to her, to bring forth something intangible into the world.

It had been that way out there in the forest under the stars. But here in this room, in this enclosed space, with Daryl's eyes fixed upon her as he made himself comfortable in that heartbreaking excuse for a bed, something felt different. There was something about this place between worlds, something about being watched here, and watched by _him_ , that made Beth's heart beat faster and her throat go dry.

For a moment she could not find her voice to sing.

It was in that moment that Daryl spoke. "Why don't you go ahead, and play some more," he said, his own voice gone hoarse as if he too had forgotten how to use it. "Keep singin'."

His words, so unexpected, shot through her like a bolt from his bow, straight into an old wound she'd forgotten was even there. "I thought my singin' annoyed you," she blurted.

"Well," Daryl said, looking at her with a strange smile, "there ain't no jukebox, so…" He trailed off, and his expression of abashed tenderness, softened further in the candlelight, astonished her even more than his words.

Beth could not help but smile back, for by now she knew that her companion's teasing was always laced with great affection. _So I was right,_ she mused to herself. _He doesn't mind me singin' out there, by the fire._

Still smiling, she spun slowly on the piano bench and resumed her playing. She sang, and if she had an audience of but one, it mattered not, for the tune unfurled itself from the depths on her heart, as though she sang to another part of herself.

Daryl could not know, he could not fathom how the words emanating from her lips had shifted and dissolved and reformed, redefined themselves in their meaning now that his ears were present to absorb them.

 _And we'll buy a beer to shotgun_  
 _And we'll lay in the lawn_  
 _And we'll be good_

Maybe, there in that strangely peaceful place, they would be.

…

If someone had asked her, Beth could not have said how long she'd sung and played, only that the sun had gone down, revealing the edge of night when she finally paused to rest her fingers and to sip water from one of their shared bottles. That it was only when the throbbing of her ankle became too distracting and the tiredness behind her eyes made her long to close them, long for more comfortable rest.

Atop the piano, the little candles, or _tea-lights_ as her mother had always called them, burned steadily, some almost down to the very end of their wicks. Between the boarded up windows, Beth could just make out the faint reddish glow in the western sky, the last remnants of the sunlight. For the sun had indeed shone upon them that day, had peeked out from behind pale clouds whilst they stood in front of a headstone of a long-dead stranger, in a graveyard full of long-dead strangers.

It had been so long since Beth had seen a proper gravestone that she'd stopped, transfixed. She'd stood there with her weight on one leg, staring down at the carved granite on front of her. She had only to read the words: BELOVED FATHER, engraved thereupon and the tears had welled in her eyes. When Daryl had stooped to pluck the sparse stalks of yellow goldenrod—the last of the autumn weeds, really—and had, with such reverence, placed them thereupon, she'd thought her heart might burst open.

She had not expected him to remember. She had not expected him to recall what she'd done for the poor, dead souls beneath the waters of that lake.

But he had.

And just as they had upon that dock, they remained there, hand in hand, for some time. Once again, Beth could not recall who had reached out first. She knew only that their fingers had sought and found and become entangled as they stood gazing down upon a simple, graven stone.

Finally, Daryl had bent his knees and beckoned her to climb upon his back once more. Silently, she had hopped up. She'd clasped her arms around his neck and wrapped her thighs around his middle, and had held on as tightly as she could. He'd only placed her down again once they were safely upon the front porch of the place they had, by then, ascertained was a funeral home.

After everything, one might have been forgiven for assuming a funeral home to be the last kind of place she'd want to stay. But, strangely, the dead men upstairs in the parlor and those in the embalming room below did not disturb her. Rather the opposite—she found their presence comforting. Here, at last, were the peaceful, resting dead. After the lake of fire, after that blood-red field, after the country club, after the train tracks, after the devastation of the prison, after the entirety of the last two years, it was a welcome sight, to see someone treating the bodies of the dead with such care and respect.

Beth considered this, and concluded that this person who had taken such trouble to hold funerals for long-dead men, funerals that no one would attend, might perhaps be eccentric, but surely could not be all bad. Perhaps, if this person returned, there was a chance that they might not mind if they stayed for a night or two. With her ankle swollen and throbbing the way it was, it seemed they would have to remain at least the one night. It seemed to her that to attempt to hobble out there this very night, even with Daryl's protection, sooner or later she would, inevitably, join the stumbling ranks of the unquiet dead.

With a fresh shot of grief, she thought of her father, how he'd managed with only one leg for the better part of a year. _Maybe I could do it too, but only if…_ her thoughts trailed. Her father had lived safe inside the prison walls, not out in the wilds of the world. And ultimately, it had been when he'd ventured outside the fences of their home that he'd been captured, and killed.

There were far worse, and far faster things than walkers out there, Beth knew.

One of the candles went out then, and the remaining tea-lights wavered precariously. The room had grown dark, and was only growing dimmer by the moment. Daryl had not stirred, and she wondered if he had finally fallen into a deep sleep. Part of her dearly wished to let him stay there as long as possible. _Lord knows he needs the rest._ But she, too, was exhausted, about to pass out at this rate from the throbbing of her injured ankle and the tiredness combined.

Somehow she doubted there'd be room enough for two in a coffin built for one.

Watching her companion lying there, still and peaceful as the dead man upstairs, Beth shivered. Suddenly, she wanted to get him out of there, peaceful or no. There was a bedroom they'd come across upstairs while exploring the top floor, earlier. It was where she'd found the little golden cross on a chain. She'd eyed it for a moment, indecisive. It had been Daryl, who'd been standing just behind her, who had picked it up off the dresser and silently placed it into her hand.

Unable now to draw her eyes from his prone form, Beth's sense of foreboding increased. She knew she could not let him sleep there any longer. And not only that, but she was tired, so tired. Tired from the day. Tired of tip-toeing—or, in her case, hobbling—around what she wanted.

What Beth wanted was to sleep. In a _real_ bed.

And she did not want to sleep alone.

With some effort, she hoisted herself up off the bench and limped over to where Daryl lay with one hand upon his chest and the other behind his head. His lids were still closed; he really did seem to be asleep. Aside from the way he'd propped up his leg, bent knee visible beneath the tear in his brown jeans, he looked in that moment like he belonged there.

A strange urge overcame her, and without thinking she reached out to where the flesh of his belly peeked out along the bottom edge of that flannel shirt she had chosen for him. And there, where it had rucked up just slightly, she poked him. She had only just grazed the hem of his shirt, had barely even touched the warm, exposed skin of his stomach with the tip of her finger when, without warning, his hand snaked out and snatched her wrist.

With a grunt, Daryl opened an eye, warily.

"Thought you might not really be sleepin'," Beth said, looking down on him with a smile.

Still holding onto her wrist, Daryl squinted at her through one eye and then the other. "Why'd you stop?" he rasped.

In the faint candlelight his eyes glinted, and in that moment Beth could not have said if he referred to her piano-playing or to her thwarted attempt to tickle him. "I'm tired, is all," she replied cautiously. Her eyes flickered over him. "So, you gonna stay in there all night?"

"I'unno," he mumbled, giving a little shrug.

"What about that room upstairs?" she offered. "That bed's gotta be more comfy than this."

Daryl still had not let go of her wrist, and he looked for a moment as though he might just pull her in there with him. If anything, his hold on her had tightened.

"Hey," she said, with a little giggle. "Don't think there's much room for me in there."

He released her then, so suddenly that she stepped backward from the coffin. Unthinking, she put the full force of her weight down upon her injured ankle and felt it buckle once more beneath her. "Ahh," she hissed at the sudden, sharp pain.

" _Shit."_ Daryl was up in a flash, swinging his legs over the side and climbing out of the casket, to crouch beside her as she crumpled to the hard floor. "You okay?"

She just nodded. "Stupid. Sorry."

"You ain't stupid," he said, serious. "Just hurt. Come on." And he half lifted, half led her to the fancy settee against the wall by the room's entrance. "Here, sit down."

Then, he strode over to the piano and blew out the remaining candles. Pausing for a moment, he chewed on the inside of his mouth as though considering something. She watched, puzzled, as he gathered up the candles and plopped them into the backpack where she'd left it on the floor. Shouldering the pack, he then moved quickly back to where she sat, reached down for his bow where it rested beside her on the settee, and then strode toward the door.

He paused, mid-stride, and looked back at her. "Wait here," he commanded.

"What're you doin'?"

The look he gave her was piercing. "You'll see."

And then he was gone. She heard his boots on the stairs, and then the creak of floorboards above, and then she could hear him no longer.

While the sharp, jabbing pain in her ankle had already subsided to a dull throb once more, she nonetheless had to admit she was grateful for the settee. She still could not believe it. After all they'd been through, for her to hurt herself on something as simple as an old, rusty coyote trap. _Of all the things_ , she thought. She'd felt mighty stupid, lying there in the leaves with her foot caught and swelling up fast. And she'd been furious, for she knew in that moment she was vulnerable, so vulnerable. Like she was, after all, nothing but an animal.

Nothing but someone else's prey.

It had hurt like hell, she had to admit. But Daryl had been there, had managed to wrench those cruel metal jaws open again. To free her.

Of course, Beth was no stranger to pain. Early on out there, there had been days of searing blisters on her feet, of pounding headaches from the heat and humidity. Mornings of waking up sore and aching, with every muscle in her body burning. But even those seemingly-endless days of agony had faded as she'd grown strong and fleet out there in the forest.

Or, perhaps, the pain was still there, deep inside her, and she just no longer noticed it.

And so, this throbbing, dull ache was nothing in and of itself. She could take it, and then some. No, it was not the pain itself that concerned her. Rather it was the fact that she could not put her full weight on her heel—for Beth had come to rely heavily on her speed. Yes, she could fight, better than ever. Daryl had seen to that. But it was her fleetness of foot, her ability to run swift as deer that had saved her life countless times out there in the forest. Without it, she could not keep up with him, and had she not promised him she would never leave him? She thought of their long trek out of the woods after she'd injured herself. The painfully slow progress through the graveyard, and how she'd needed to take so many breaks that he'd finally told her to jump up on his back, to hitch a ride. No, right now she could hardly stand beside the man, let alone run. And, well, _sooner or later…_

She knew Daryl was worried—she saw it in his eyes, in his furtive glances at her ever since her fall. Worried about her, and worried that the owner of the house might come back, might be crazy. Might be _demanding._ Might be another torch-wielding axe-murderer bent on unleashing his strange brand of personal hell upon an already hellish world.

" _I'll take care of 'em,"_ Daryl had said.

 _Takin' care of things,_ Beth thought wryly, _he's good at that._

And yet, those words took on another meaning as she thought back to earlier that day, down there in that dark embalming room. The soft cushion upon which she sat now contrasted sharply with the memory of the hard metal countertop in that subterranean dungeon of a room. A room that had smelled strongly of chemicals, so unlike the earthy scents of the forest she'd grown used to now. A place scrubbed clean and cold and gleaming. Sterile, like a doctor's office or a hospital. And the smell had been strong, that of a room still very much in use.

That was when she'd noticed him, the man on the table. Walker, dead man, it mattered not. She'd seen him in that moment as a man. Beautiful, she'd called him. Well, not him so much as what had been done for him. And the person who'd done it.

Daryl had looked at her long and hard when she'd spoken, and she'd thought…surely he must know. Know that she'd meant it for him. For what he'd done for her dad, out there. What he'd done for _her_.

 _Don't you see?_ she'd thought. _You're beautiful, too, Mr. Dixon._

She wondered, now, if she should have said it out loud.

But she'd lost any and all ability to form words the moment that Daryl had nudged her gently to the edge of the countertop, and had knelt on the hard floor before her. She recalled how he'd removed her boot and then sock, slowly. He'd fumbled with her tight jeans, and she'd had to reach down and help him. It had seemed to take years to roll them up. Centuries, even. And there'd been that moment when she'd had to rest her foot awkwardly upon the broad plane of his shoulder so as to keep her balance.

Beth shook her head, still confounded at the memory. She could not countenance how a man's hands could shake. How hands so steady, so practiced—hands that could sharpen a hunting knife, hands that could gut and skin a deer, hands that could grip and swing an axe in long and steady strokes, hands that could hold and aim a bow with deadly precision, hands that could guide her firmly through dark and perilous woods—could quiver and tremble against her injured foot.

She could still feel those hands, a bit unsteady yes, but warm and gentle on her swollen ankle. How he'd lifted her calf, wrapped the fresh bandages carefully, cocooning the injured area as best as he could. How he'd paused for a moment to tear off the end of the bandage with his teeth, and in doing so had rested her leg against his shoulder once more. There in that cold room, Beth had felt the heat of his breath against her bare skin and had shivered involuntarily.

Still crouched there before her, he'd then helped her slide her sock and boot back over her bandaged foot, slowly, slowly, taking extra care not to bump her in anyway way, careful not to cause her any further pain. And oh, the way he'd looked up again at her when finished, for the span of many breaths, still holding on gently to her leg. She could still feel the warmth of his palm even through her jeans, and the flush spreading upward through her whole body—

"Hey." The roughness of his voice startled her, sent her hurtling back to the present. She hadn't even heard him come back down the stairs.

"Hey," she said. "So, can I come up now?"

Daryl was just inside the doorway, looking down upon her in the near-darkness. "Oh, uh, yeah…"

Beth stood up and hobbled over to where he stood. She shot his shadowed form the briefest of glances, and then limped past him to the foot of the stairs. She had already gripped the cool, wooden railing and put one foot onto the bottom stair when suddenly he was behind her.

"What d'you think you're doin'?" His breath was warm, so warm; his voice, low and rasping in her ear.

She paused, as though caught in some invisible snare. "Goin' upstairs, what does it look like?"

"Nuh-uh, you ain't climbin' those again."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on."

He gave her a hard look. "I ain't waitin' all night."

"Wait, Daryl—"

But her protest was cut short. Before she could even lift her injured foot and take another step, she was scooped up in a pair of familiar, strong arms—arms that once again lifted her as if she weighed nothing, despite his earlier teasing outside in the graveyard. Only this time he held her before him, close against his chest.

Beth was used to struggling when caught. Used to resisting. Daryl had taught her to do so himself. And so, at the sudden sensation of being thus overpowered, her first urge was to strain against him, to kick out and wriggle out of his grasp, and escape. But after a moment, the frantic helplessness subsided, replaced entirely by safety, comfort, warmth. She recognized that she was entirely in his power now, and yet she surrendered completely. She wrapped her arms around his neck, for she knew not else what to do with them.

Resting her head, just so, against his shoulder, she clung to his neck as he took each slow, clunking step, trying not to knock her injured ankle against the railing.

"Thought you said I was heavy." She hadn't meant to speak it aloud, but thought had escaped as words from her lips.

His voice was a faint rumble. "'Sure as hell ain't got any lighter since this mornin'."

Beth couldn't help but sent a half-hearted punch right into his chest.

At that he snorted, a quirk appearing in the corner of his mouth. "Hey, if I can't even carry a lil' thing like you up a couple stairs, I'm screwed, ain't I."

…

In the end, he carried her up two whole flights, all the way up to the top floor. There, Daryl still did not put her down but brought her the end of the hallway, to the small bedroom they'd found earlier, slowly shouldering his way in through the door.

Beth was used to living by the warm glow of fire and candlelight. But the sight before her snatched her breath away.

 _It looks almost like…_ But no, whatever the man's intentions in setting up these candles, it had surely been for the purpose of shedding light upon an unfamiliar place. And yet as she took in the candlelit room—an attic almost, really, with its slanting roof, and white, nearly bare walls, save for a cross hanging over the bed—words and terms long-forgotten came to her, _"romantic…date…sexy",_ words her friends would giggle over as they whispered them to each other from their sleeping bags on the floor.

Beth forced such silliness out of her mind as Daryl set her down carefully upon the twin bed. Beneath her lower back the mattress was so soft, almost as soft as the king-size bed at the lakehouse. So soft she nearly wept to feel it against her sore, aching body thus. It had only a threadbare quilt and a knitted throw blanket, rather than fluffy down comforter, but it was a blessed relief after lying amongst twigs, rocks, wet leaves, and acorns for lord-knew how long.

Even so, resting there atop the thin quilt, Beth did not wiggle around and snuggle into this one. Daryl had seated himself beside her, right on the edge of the bed. After sliding her knife from her belt and placing within easy reach beside her on the nightstand, she'd held herself quite still. For now, she remained where he'd laid her, as motionless as an effigy on a tomb.

It was only as she felt her eyes closing, felt herself drifting off that she forced herself to sit up for a moment with her back against the headboard. "Shit," she said, "better take off my boots." For all she knew it might be one of the few chances she'd get to sleep without them.

"Here," Daryl said. "I got 'em." And before she could say a thing, he had her feet in his lap, and was carefully pulling off first one boot, and then the other.

And, this time, if a man's hands shook, Beth was too astonished to notice.

Once he was finished, once he had lifted her legs from his lap and set them gently back onto the bed, he got up and placed her boots on the floor, resting them against the nightstand beside his crossbow. He stood now beside the bed for a moment, quietly looming above her.

She looked up expectantly at his face, now given a soft, warm glow by the candlelight. "Well," she said. "Aren't you gonna take yours off too?"

"Nah, uh, I'm good," he said softly.

"What, your feet too stinky or somethin'?" she teased. He didn't answer, so she pressed on. "You're seriously keepin' your boots on? In _bed_?"

Daryl started to walk away. "I'm takin' watch. By the d—"

" _No_!" Beth cried out. Before she could stop herself, she'd reached out grabbed his ripped jacket sleeve to stop him. She cringed at herself then, sure that she must sound petulant, even childish. She took a deep breath. " _Please_ ," she breathed.

Her companion had stopped in his tracks and gone deathly quiet.

She let go of his sleeve then. "You said it yourself. 'No way in 'cept through the front door.'"

Daryl did not speak, but only gazed down upon her for many, long moments. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he turned and strode across the room over to the small window. Before she could even wonder at his intent, she saw him lean over and purse his lips, and begin to blow out the candles, one by one.

As he moved to extinguish the last, flickering light on the narrow window sill, she called out to him. "Wait. Leave that one."

He did as she bid. She heard him cross the room, darkened now save for the last candle and the moonlight streaming in through the small window. He stopped a pace away from the bed where she lay, and stood for a moment, a hulking form half-illuminated by the light of the full moon. Even through the darkness and the shifting shadows she felt his eyes upon her. And then, silently, never dropping his gaze from hers, he began to pull off his boots. Setting them beside hers on the floor, he proceeded to slowly remove his leather vest, and, finally, his denim jacket. He let the tattered jacket and his second skin, his daily shields against the world, fall in a heap upon the floor. _Like he's makin' himself right at home._

Having peeled away each outer garment, he stood now before her in just the plaid flannel shirt. With his eyes still fixed upon her where she lay, he unsheathed his knife.

For a moment, it caught the moonlight, and gleamed brightly in his hand.

But then, he dropped his gaze and reached over, and placed the sharp weapon carefully upon the nightstand, alongside her own.

As Beth had watched him remove one layer after another, her fingers had moved automatically to undo the top button of her own cardigan. But now, Daryl stood close to the edge of the bed, and as she caught his eyes once more, she hesitated, just for a moment. A moment long enough for her to shiver, and to push the button back into its hole.

Strange, she had not thought herself cold here in this cozy room, here in this bed.

Still standing there, Daryl finally spoke. "Alright," he said, "but just for a while. Then I'm takin' watch." As he moved a step closer to the edge of the bed, just for a second, she heard the old, taunting menace in his voice: "Come on, Greene, scoot over. Or do I gotta move ya myself?"

"Oh," she said, giggling. She slid herself as close to the wall as possible. "Sorry."

And then she felt the shift of heavy weight at her side, and heard the creak of the mattress, and heard his soft grunt as he stretched his tired body out onto the bed. Beth hadn't realized how narrow the bed was until he was there beside her atop the thin quilt. She had not dared crawl beneath it, and neither had he.

Now, she was almost pressed right up against the cold wall, and she was already craving extra warmth. So, she sidled closer, just an inch or two, and drew the throw-blanket more tightly around them both. Daryl had already moved onto his side with his back to her, just has he had countless times out in the forest on summer nights gone by.

There was a moment when she hesitated, unsure what to do with herself. But taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arm around him from behind, like she had so many times before. Like she had, that first time, when they were both lit aflame by the moonshine. "Don't leave. Not tonight," she whispered to him. " _Stay_."

Daryl did not reply, but breathed deeply in his turn, and remained silent there beside her. Beth thought she could feel, almost, the raised welts of his old scars through the lone layer of cloth that was the worn plaid shirt she'd given him. A dead man's shirt. _No, the last man's shirt_ , she thought, squeezing him tighter. She pressed her chest into the broadness of his back, thinking that maybe she could somehow absorb what she'd missed that time, maybe she could absorb everything that had ever hurt him, could take it into her own heart. For her heart felt strong then, thudding as it was in her little breast.

Ever since the night they'd burned down that moonshiner's cabin, Beth had experienced the strangest sensation—the feeling of having peered through a glass and seen through to the shadowy corners of a man's past. As though, somehow, she even now had agency within it. She tried to shake the thought. It was madness. She was no ray of starlight, able to traverse time and space, to travel back to _before_ , to shine down upon a lost, frightened boy, cowering in fear in the devouring dark. And yet, even now it seemed to her that she held that forlorn child in the circle of her arms. Days gone by, days to come…all merged into now.

" _Stay_ ," she insisted, nuzzling even further into him. "It'll feel like we're still out there."

As she whispered the words into the back of his neck, her lips caught upon the tangle of his hair and she felt him shiver in her arms. His broad shoulders heaved against her chest, and Beth's heart pounded—she even thought, for a moment, that he might be crying. But then Daryl's shuddering breath evened out once more, steady and rhythmic, and blissfully familiar. Her own breathing aligned with his until they rose and fell together as one.

It was then she began to move her hand—at first, just tiny, gentle circles against his chest and his stomach. With a careful, practiced delicacy, she let her fingers slide through the buttons of the old flannel shirt, cascading lightly against him. Moving slowly across the length and breadth of his hard upper body, she could sense some tension there beneath her touch. As she slid her palm across the worn fabric, she thought only to soothe him, to calm him.

But suddenly, inadvertently, her hand slipped downward, drifting toward his belt, connecting with the skin of his stomach beneath his shirt. He drew a sharp breath, and his arms shifted, and she felt his iron grip then upon her wrist. He wrenched her hand back up to his chest and held it there. He was gripping her so hard it was almost painful, but she didn't cry out, she only hugged him, squeezed him back as hard as she could, an apology for slipping too close to dangerous territory.

Gradually, Daryl's grip loosened and she knew the danger had, for now, passed. Lying there in the moonlit darkness, Beth sighed, her breath stirring his hair against the base of his neck. And then she did the safer, surer thing—she hummed quietly, softly, as though singing to a little child. _"Hmm hmm…and we'll lay in the lawn…and we'll be…"_

What they would _be_ , she did not yet know, for lying there upon that bed with the warmth of the man beside her, she soon fell deeply into sleep.

…

Beth stood on the porch of the farmhouse, looking down upon her mother working in the garden. Somehow, she knew this for what it was: the moment her mother had been bitten. The moment she'd have to watch it happen all over again. She tried to shout, tried, like a voice from the future, to warn Shawn as he ran out of the house and down the steps into the yard to their mother's aid. But she had no voice. And for her brother there had been no future. In vain, she tried to close her eyes, to turn her face away before she was forced to see him bitten, in his turn.

And then she was in yard of the prison as the bright sword flashed, and then there was nothing but red, so much red, pouring into her vision, as there upon a sun-scorched field she watched her father's beheading. She was screaming, sobbing, yet still emitting no sound. And then, in a place wholly unknown to her, she was being forced to watch as Maggie and Glenn, Rick and Carl, and others—people she'd loved, both from the prison and from her life _before_ , friends and neighbors she'd never had a chance to mourn—were likewise slaughtered, one by one, in great pools of blood.

Such images morphed and melted together: scenes of the past, scenes of the future, scenes of her own making…Beth did not know. She knew only that each scene was more disturbing than the last.

And then it came. Somehow she had known was coming. The last scene, the one she'd dreaded the most.

She saw Daryl, and he was fighting upon a great open plain, as a warrior upon a field of battle. He was alone, fighting single-handedly against a vast herd of walkers, and in his hand was…no, not a sword, but some kind of pole, or ancient spear with a point as red as blood, as red as fire. She watched in despair as he fell, wounded, bitten, surely dying. A star, falling at long-last from his zenith. And then she was kneeling beside him, drenched in crimson as his lifeblood spilled onto the ground, silently begging him not to go, not to turn, _please, not just yet._ She looked on, helpless, as his eyes finally closed.

She could not bring herself to end it. And yet, when he opened his eyes once more, they were not the dim, blood-shot, yellow eyes of a walker, but the bright, golden slits of a great beast. He stirred in her arms then, and lifted his head to let out the most heart rending howl, as though calling for a master who would never return. Beth tried to hold onto him, but he was all bristly fur, angry, slavering jaw, and sharp, rending claws. Somehow she knew that if she could just hold on, hold on until dawn, he would not turn, he would be himself, he would be Daryl again…

She emerged from the night-terror with a pounding heart, violently bridging the dark void between sleeping and waking.

Even as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, there was a long, shaking moment when she could not remember where she was. Beth blinked, and swallowed, her eyes darting toward the little window, searching for shining orb of the full moon, desirous for its light, but she could not glimpse it through the shutters. She had the insane thought that it too, had been devoured by some beast. Or, she told herself more rationally, perhaps it had merely been clouded over. Either way, she felt its absence deeply, keenly, as if cut off from the natural forces she had come to rely upon.

In that moment, she felt trapped, unable to breathe, and she shot straight up in the bed, so hard she hit her head on the headboard, and let out a cry of pain.

Daryl had fallen asleep with his back toward her but was awake in an instant, reaching for his big knife where it rested on the nightstand. When he realized there was no physical danger, he immediately set it down again with a clatter. He moved instead toward her, to where she sat gasping and blinking into the dark. Without hesitation, he gathered her to his chest and spoke in a soft whisper: "Beth, hey, hey, you're dreamin' again."

"Oh," she breathed into him. _"Oh."_

Pressed up against him in the darkness, she couldn't see his face, she only heard him clear his throat. She recalled the night at the lake, and the previous night out there beneath the pines. She remembered the dead drifting in the water, and a nightmare of being chased through a dark wood. She shuddered. "Guess I do this a lot, huh?"

Daryl didn't answer, and as always his silence, his hesitation, spoke louder than any words. "Hey," he croaked against her hair. "'S alright. I-uh—" and he cleared his throat again, "I got ya."

And before she could form any further thoughts in her dream-addled mind, he had pulled her back down to the mattress to lie beside him once more. Only this time, she felt herself drawn up against him so that her head rested upon his broad chest. Like the night in the misty grove when she could not stop shivering, warmth now spread through her entire body. As she snuggled into him in response, she could already feel herself veering to the dark edge of dreams once more. And yet somehow, she sensed that, this time, she would not fall.

Before she drifted back into the waiting void, Beth sighed with something akin to relief.

"You stayed," she breathed into him. "You stayed."

…

It was still dark when she woke again, this time out of a dreamless slumber.

In the dim room, she felt rather than saw that Daryl was indeed still there beside her in the narrow bed, and that he still lay facing her. His arm rested heavily across her waist, and her head was still snug upon his chest, just beneath the crook of his neck. His steady breath gusted warmly against her ear; the faint hint of the grape jelly he'd licked off his fingers downstairs in the kitchen earlier wafted over her. He seemed to be asleep, and she thought perhaps he had not meant to hold her thus all night.

Half asleep though she was herself, she felt warm and safe in that embrace, and so she snuggled further into him, wrapping her own arm around his back. Her chest was now pressed against his, and her face was close, so close to his neck. She recalled the moment on the dock, when they'd stood suspended between water, earth, and sky. The moment her lips had found his throat by a strange twist of a fate. The moment she'd stepped boldly up onto her toes, wrapped her arms around him, and taken a chance.

She had not known she'd been waiting for another.

But whether it was fate or free will that moved her now, all Beth knew was that to do so felt as natural as breathing. And so, she once more found the spot where his lifeblood surged, and she placed her lips there gently, so as not to wake him.

But perhaps he had indeed been awake, for she felt the answering movement of his own mouth against her hair. It was not a kiss, it was nothing so obvious or easy as that. Rather, it seemed to her the shadow of something far deeper, far more passionate, and for a moment Beth could scarcely breathe with the feeling of it.

For a moment, she dared not open her eyes, perhaps, to shut out the darkness, or, perhaps, to contain the fire that even now sparked to life within her.

She knew they would not speak of this in the morning, and maybe that made her bold. For she moved her lips against his neck, and she felt his mouth, hot and yearning, open against her hair. Her lips trailed against his skin, from his Adam's apple to his ear, and her tongue flicked once, twice, and she tasted salt, earth, and man.

Daryl gasped as though in pain, as though wounded. _"Beth,"_ his voice broke against her, rough as a stormy sea, and there was desperation in his tone. But once again, whether he pleaded now for her to stop, or for her to continue, she did not know.

Still facing one another, they now froze, like creatures caught in trapper's snare. With chests pressed close, their hearts beat frantically together, like two wild things clawing to be free, clawing to get to one another.

"Beth, I—"

"Shh," she quieted him, "shh."

With her arm still tight around him, she began to move her hand against his back, stroking him gently, quietly, until his breathing calmed, and her own with it. She wondered, in that moment if it would always be thus. If she would always, in some way, need to comfort this perpetually wounded man. The thought did not trouble her—somehow, she had always sensed that in comforting him, she would be comforted in return.

And yet, tonight, it was not enough. Tonight, she wished not merely for comfort, but for _closeness_. Still holding him to her, she wrapped her leg around his, like she had once before beneath the tangled roots of a great tree. She slid her feet against his socks, uncaring how sweaty or unpleasant they might be. As she did, their knees knocked together, and their hips pressed and moved together so that even that the buttons on their jeans slid against one another.

Still holding her close, it was then that she felt Daryl's hands begin to move gently upon her back until one came to rest lightly upon her waist. She trembled, and instinctively brought her own hand to grasp his wrist where he held her, to let her fingers slide beneath the flannel sleeve of his shirt. Beneath that warm, smooth skin, she felt the pulse of his blood quicken beneath her touch. He hovered there at her waist, his thumb moving almost imperceptibly against her. She could feel the ghost of his fingers through the layers of fabric between them.

But it seemed even the shadow of his touch was enough to burn her tonight. Still trailing her fingers against the inside of his wrist, still with her leg wrapped around him, she moved her hips just so, right _there_ against the hardness of him. As she did, her own blood and breath quickened and a small, sharp gasp escaped her.

At the sound—or perhaps the motion—Daryl went utterly still.

Pressed up against him as she was, what with her leg practically hanging over him, Beth felt a surge of embarrassment. Perhaps she'd gone too far. Done something even stupider than land herself in an open trap. Perhaps he would let go of her. Perhaps he would turn over with a grunt and go to sleep. Perhaps he would not be able to look at her tomorrow. Perhaps she'd gone and misread the signs. _Stupid, stupid._ She was glad of the darkness of the room in that moment, glad of her extra layer, her cozy grey sweater. Glad he could not behold the flush that surely had spread all over her body.

In the end, he did indeed let go, and for a moment her heart sank. But then, beneath the thin blanket that covered them, she felt his warm calluses against her own fingers—his hand seeking hers. Carefully, gently, he brought her hand up to his chest, placed it over his pounding heart, and rested his fingers atop her own.

She let out a shuddering sigh, and nestled her head into him, and as she did she felt a strange tugging against her neck. It was then she realized that her necklaces had become entangled, and had caught upon the front buttons of his shirt. She felt a sort of delirious laughter bubbling inside of her, threatening to spill out—for it seemed that even if they had wished to part, these fateful threads had woven them fast together. Chain-linked, now and forever.

Their legs remained entwined, and Beth's thoughts drifted once more back to the night of the lake and the fire. She felt as though any moment they would find themselves tumbling once more down that steep ravine to lie together beneath a great tree, and she trembled once more.

Yet again she recalled the moment on the dock, when she'd hugged and kissed him by chance, and when his answer had been to hold her, tentative, but close. And that night in the little moonlit grove, when he'd once more returned her embrace. And then, as though he had heard her very thoughts, Daryl shifted and moved his hand again, and his arms came circling around her, pulling her against him as though he too wished to be closer, ever closer.

Beth was no stranger to closeness. No stranger to the act of touching and being touched in return. She knew the words, the terms, the definitions, the lines drawn. Since the turn, such lines had blurred of course. But this…this was no blurring of boundaries. This was an entire bridge about to be burned. She sensed they were on the brink of something, something inevitable, momentous, and…forever.

Anchored there against him, she felt Daryl's hands move once more, felt his fingers caress her from her upper back down along the ridge of her spine. He held onto her, pressing her body against his own, gripping her waist for a moment, just long enough for her to feel a surge of warmth within her at the strength in his fingers.

She then felt those fingers move again, gently, almost imperceptibly, there upon the small of her lower back. "Ohh…" The sound escaped from her as a whimper; she dug her nails into his back.

At the sensation, her companion took a deep breath, but did not release her. It seemed it was his turn to soothe her, now. He hushed her wordlessly; she felt his breath on her ear, on her neck. With his mouth hot and open against her hair, and his hands warm and firm—and no longer trembling, she noticed—around her waist, Beth thought she might gasp out loud again.

Something had sparked and crackled to life within her; soon it would not be contained.

The realization gave her pause, and she stilled once more in his arms.

Oh, she knew of the lusts of the body, of the hot pounding of the blood, the creature yearning for its mate. And she knew a little, perhaps, of what she'd once thought was love. But this…this could not be described as lust nor love, but as something…else. Something older and far deeper. It was the wordless search of a deer for a flowing stream, a branch growing toward the heavens, an ancient root seeking a well-spring, deep within the earth.

It was something old and fierce and wild as any fire.

If Beth carried even a feather-ounce of fear in her heart, it was not for this man in her arms. Not for this shy, gentle creature, nor for the beast that she knew even now slept inside of him, with one eye open.

No, it was simply that she sensed a shift in the very fabric of things, another turning of the world. _Their_ world.

And from some things, Beth knew, there could be no turning back.

So she went quiet and remained motionless in his arms, and savored this moment. For, even though they now lay together inside these four walls, beneath this slanting roof, she could still smell the forest on him. Oh, yes, there it was…the scent of decaying leaves, the sharp tang of pine needles. Even now, she could sense in him the stillness that had fallen upon the land, and could still smell the faint, iron-rich scent of blood from their hunts. She inhaled deeply, soothing the yearning ache inside her with the woodsmoke lingering in his hair and on his shirt. In that moment, she imagined they were still out there, locked together beside the dying fire.

But there was no fire here in this room, only the lone candle on the window ledge flickering in the cold draft, still clinging fiercely to its little light. Lifting her head for a moment from Daryl's chest, she peered over the top his head and watched as it wavered once more and then went out. As though the very breath of winter had found its way in, and stolen its life.

Beth shivered. Not with the cold, no. The candle had gone out, perhaps, but in that room a flame still burned.

Daryl's arms shifted around her again and she felt his hand come up to cradle the back of her head, to linger then upon her neck, to ghost against her ear. And then she felt his thumb, callused and warm, reach up to stroke her cheek, caressing the ridge of her cheekbone for only a moment. For all eternity. A soft cry escaped her throat, and she tried too late to stop it, opening her mouth against his chest. For within that lightest of touches she sensed something aching and deeply possessive, and somehow she knew that it carried with it far greater claim than any kiss could ever hold.

She heard it then, from outside, the lonely, plaintive howl of some creature—a dog perhaps? Beth had neither seen nor heard a dog since the last of Otis' hunting hounds had gone down fighting a walker. The sound now carried mournfully through the cold night, and in that moment, Beth would even have believed it was a wolf.

Instinctively, she tightened her arms around Daryl just as he pulled her closer, ever closer, to him. It was an embrace at once protective and fierce, and yet gentle, so gentle. Some part of her wished that their lives—their entire world—would end now. For surely nothing could possibly feel safer, or warmer, or more like home, than this moment.

"Daryl," she whispered into the darkness.

Silently, he answered her with his arms, with his hands, with his breath. With his very being.

He was not her boyfriend. Nor was he her lover, this last man standing.

But he was _hers_.

Her last man.

 _No one will take him from me,_ she thought ferociously. _And I will not leave him._

Lying there, with her arms still enfolded around him, Beth recalled what she'd thought earlier—that some people had fires inside of them so hot that, just by sharing their presence they could catch others aflame. Within Daryl's embrace, with his arm encircling her as though he could not hold her close enough, and with his hand cradling her head against his chest as though it were the most precious thing left to him in the world, she no longer knew which of them had lit the other.

She suspected they'd been burning for a long time.

That, together, they could burn forever.

Outside, the lone creature howled once more. But like the night of the moonshine and the fire, and night of the lake and the great conflagration that rose into the deep, black darkness of the sky, Beth knew that neither wolf nor walker nor Death itself would come between them.

Not this night.

…

* * *

**** **IMPORTANT REMINDER** ****

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


	9. Epilogue - Be Good

"We just need a safe place to _be_."  
-Beth Greene, 'Inmates'

…

When Beth finally opened her eyes, she was greeted by the brightest white light she'd ever seen, scattered in a dazzling array across the ceiling above her head. This was swiftly followed by the most delightful, astonishing sensation of being cocooned within a warm blanket, sheltered amidst soft pillows.

 _I'm in a bed,_ she realized. _A real bed._

And there in that bed, Beth forgot the turning of the world. She forgot the constant struggle of life and death, forgot the prison and the demise of all but the one, last man whom she held dear. She forgot the forest, and the raging fire, and the stars shining in the night sky, and for one, surreal moment she thought she was still in her childhood bedroom with its white-washed walls, highlighted with soft yellows and blues. For one, long moment she thought she was in the farmhouse with her family just downstairs, waiting for her to come down to breakfast.

She lay stretched out upon the soft mattress, between dreaming and waking, between past and present, for some time. Until something made her reach out for a memory of shared warmth. And oh, she remembered now. She remembered the first pale rays of dawn washing over her and the one she'd held in her arms that long, quiet night—the one who'd held _her._ She remembered waking briefly to the sensation of being enveloped from behind, a man's arm heavy and protective across her shoulders, her own fingers holding tightly onto his forearms in her sleep. She remembered his slow, deep breathing against her ear, and with a sigh she turned over to face him.

She reached out and her arms grasped at emptiness.

Instantly, she was wide awake. All came flooding back. A tide of joy, a wave of sorrow. The world had turned, and turned, and turned again, had given and taken, given and taken away, until she'd had only one soul left to her.

She remembered everything. The fire, the water. Smoke rising into a midnight sky filled with stars. Running, hunting. The taste of summer-ripe berries, picked with care. Fruit amongst thorns. The scent of familiar creatures, long-gone. The dying words of an old hunter, and the sharpest blade she'd ever seen. The many-pronged antlers of a deer at dawn. A trail of crimson, bright and beckoning through a dark wood. The folding wings of a pair of swans upon a lake at dusk. A tree hiding its bounties high in its branches. Flowers picked for graves of fallen strangers. Fingers tightly clasped, clinging like vines. A man's hands, warm, so warm, in her own. And two souls, no longer alone. Two souls, lying down together upon the earth.

Two souls, lying down together upon a soft bed.

Heart pounding, she sat up, leaned against the headboard, and took several slow, deep breaths. She glanced over and saw the candles from the night before where Daryl had placed them. And as she found the lone candle with its wick burned all the way down upon the window sill, she sighed in relief.

It was real. Not a dream.

 _I am here, in this place. And he was here._

It was then Beth noticed that his crossbow was gone from where it had rested against the nightstand, as were his boots. His knife, too. Only hers remained upon the little table, alone. And then she halted her racing thoughts, calmed her own breathing, and listened, just as he'd taught her to do in the forest. She listened and heard faint noises from downstairs. With a heady rush of relief she deduced that he must have gone down to he kitchen. For she could hear the clinking of glasses and the sound of cupboards opening and closing.

Her heart constricted strangely, as she realized he must have let her sleep in. Given how much he always teased her about that in times past, it was a thoughtful gift indeed. Sweet, even. She was grateful for the extra rest. Lord knew she needed it.

And yet she felt a sudden, overwhelming pull to be down there with him, and it was not just the rumbling in her tummy, the need, the _hunger_ for sustenance, either.

Beth gathered her boots from where Daryl had placed them by the little nightstand. She pulled them on, careful with her still-bandaged ankle. She stood up, cautiously, and winced. It still smarted, but it was hardly the fierce throbbing of last night. The pain was reduced now to a dull but constant ache. She could handle that. She wouldn't be running at full speed like a deer through the forest anytime soon, but at least she could walk on it again.

Picking up her knife from the table, she slid it back into its sheath on her belt and then reached into the pack and pulled out the gun holster. She buckled it around herself carefully, adjusting to fit snugly over her hips. Armed thus, it felt almost as though she could make up for the ankle—as though she wasn't so vulnerable now.

She was about to shoulder the pack and walk out of the door into the hallway, when she spotted it.

If she hadn't already been so sure he was down there, waiting for her in the kitchen, that plaid flannel shirt would have seemed the only physical reminder of his presence in the room the night before. It still lay in a crumpled heap where he'd dropped it onto the hardwood floor. Beth could have laughed, for though she could not claim to be an expert on the ways of men, having lived with a father and a brother she thought she knew _something_ on the matter. And it seemed to her the ritual of a man who had come back after a long, hard day. Of a man who had come _home._

Beth picked the crumpled garment up off the floor and was about to stow it away into the pack when she caught the scent of that man still lingering there in its folds and wrinkles. Without a second thought she buried her face in the soft fabric, and inhaled deeply.

 _Daryl._

Quickly, she stuffed the shirt into the pack, suddenly wishing to hurry, to go to him, as fast as she could limp down there. A shirt was but a poor substitute for the real thing.

The heels of her cowboy boots clicked against the creaking floorboards as she made her way slowly across the wooden floor to the door, open slightly ajar. _He'll know I'm comin',_ she thought with a smile. He always did.

Standing the doorway, she moved down the little hallway, and stepped carefully down the first set of stairs. There, she leaned against the rail and called tentatively called down. "Daryl?"

She heard the clatter of a can or jar against a countertop or table, a soft swear, and then heavy boots scud across the floor. Suddenly, he was there at the foot of the stairway, looking up at her with expectation, his blue eyes bright. Beth could see now that he'd changed back into his old, faded black shirt. He looked well-rested for the first time in ages.

He looked wonderful.

"Hey," she said from the top of the stairs. Up there, she felt a bit like a bird on its perch, and a memory of standing upon the rungs of a rickety old ladder while picking apples came to her then, and she grinned down at him.

"Mornin', sleepyhead," he replied. "Come on down. Fixed us somethin'. For, uh, you know…breakfast," he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

She just smiled at him. "So I heard."

He cleared his throat, gesturing up to her. To her ankle. "Still hurts, don't it?"

"It's better," she said as she stepped gingerly down each stair, though she knew her grimace belied her words. She continued down the stairs, trying to ignore the dull throbbing, and cursing herself at each step.

She knew she was painfully slow, and she knew Daryl knew. She could see it in his face, and suddenly she felt oddly defensive under his concerned gaze. "Just you wait," she told him. "Soon 'nough, I'll be leavin' you in my dust again. You won't be able to catch me. Until then, I'm goin' as fast as I can."

"Forget _that,_ " he rasped. Before she could even register his intent, in just a few giant strides, in just a few decisive steps, he was up the stairs, meeting her half-way.

Before she could even begin to protest, he'd taken the pack from her and tossed it down to the foot of the stairwell, and she was in his arms again. Once more, he'd gathered her to his chest and was carrying her down the rest of the way. She felt suddenly breathless, giggling, swept away as if by a stormy breeze. Instinctively now, for she was growing used to this, her arms encircled his neck and she snuggled into his chest.

And there she inhaled his scent, letting its familiarity comfort and calm her. She did not know how much she had missed it until she breathed it in once more: the cool of his leather mingled with the heady muskiness of his sweat, the sweetness of decaying autumn leaves, the woodsmoke of their many fires beneath the glittering stars, beneath a hundred midnight skies. She buried her face into his vest, and breathed it—breathed _him_ —in deeply.

For an eternal moment she held herself close against him, as if this too were an embrace upon a dock stretching out into a lake glowing in the sunset. Or beneath the bows of an ancient tree, under a blanket of stars. And just as she had in those times past, she heard now the thudding of his heart against her own. And this time, her heart struggled no longer, but seemed content to flutter in time with his.

As he shouldered his way through the kitchen door with an almighty grunt—careful, so careful, not to knock her injured foot against it—she was met once more with the impression of brightness. The filtered light of the morning sun streamed through the thin cracks between the boarded up windows, glancing off the gleaming white cabinets. It was, momentarily, blinding. _Like bad moonshine,_ she thought, giggling at that old version of herself, who had once feared a drop of strong booze.

She sure as hell hadn't gone blind—if anything, she'd seen so much since then.

Too much, maybe. Not enough.

For she knew there was still something worth seeing out there, after all. And it was not this house, with its too-bright walls, and resting dead. Nor was it even the shifting seasons, the many colors of their forest home, as much as the trees and fields, the lakes and streams had found a deeply-rooted place in her heart. Rather, she thought, it was the light, the goodness that still burned in those souls yet living on this earth. A light—a fire—reflected infinitely, mirrored between the hearts of two companions.

As he carried her past the door, she felt the undeniable strength in his iron grip on her leg, in the way he steadied his arm around her waist. For just this once, Beth allowed herself to feel small and light, light as a feather. So light of heart, that if he'd tossed her into the air at that moment she might not have come back down again. Might have just floated away into the sky.

Lord help her, but there was more than enough heaviness in their world.

It was then she felt it—Daryl's hair, grown longer than ever now so that it fell nearly to his broad shoulders, fell into her face, lightly caressing her forehead. Breathlessly, she thought in that moment that it felt almost like a kiss. A stolen kiss.

And oh, could this truly be same man with whom she had fled the battlefield that had been their home? The same man with whom she had run through through the seasons, through the lonely, abandoned countryside and into the dark heart of the forest? With whom she'd crossed the lake of the dead, the lake of fire? With whom she'd now come to this strangely beautiful house of the blessedly-quiet dead? The same man who'd nearly disappeared forever in a haze of guilt and pain, the same man with whom she'd shared a cart of moonshine and burned down a place of dark yesterdays?

Surely, it was a different man. And yet it was the same man. For there was only ever—and would only ever be—one Daryl Dixon.

Beth squeezed her arms more tightly around his neck and giggled, delight filling her heart as this last man of hers busted down the door like he was breaking and entering, like they were naughty kids once again breaking all the rules of a world with so few left. She thought that she could easily spend the rest of whatever was left of her life, breaking all the rules with this man.

Already, she found herself impatient for the moment when night fell once more. When they could be alone in the quiet, fire-lit darkness. When they could just…be.

But for now, it was morning, and they had the whole day ahead of them.

There was that sense of what was to come once more as Daryl—as _Mr. Dixon_ —carried her through that doorway into that bright kitchen. Somehow, Beth knew there was no turning back now. And yet, she did not fear it—no, the only inevitability she dreaded now was the moment when he would have to set her down.

As they faced the bright light of morning, for a few more exquisite breaths she rested her head against Daryl's chest. In that moment, she thought she might even defy the laws of earth and sky. Might remain there, forever.

And there in the arms of the last man, Beth smiled. For the thought of forever did not frighten her at all.

…

* * *

 **A/N** : Here concludes the story of Beth and Daryl between 'Still' and 'Alone'. I have chosen to end this telling of their tale at what always seemed the most hopeful point possible. The Season 4 versions of these beloved characters have always been so incredibly dear to me, and this is my ode to them as they were.

While BtFatS and its companion stories were originally intended to be canon-compliant (and still are, up through 'Alone'), for obvious reasons I now prefer them to exist 'in their own world', the **Fire & Sky-verse**.

Please note there is now a direct continuation to this story, a divergence from 'Alone' and resolution of the slow-burn, entitled **All That Remains**.

* * *

**** **IMPORTANT REMINDER** ****

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


End file.
